


Coffee Cups & Prescription Drugs

by castielanderson



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-14
Updated: 2014-01-09
Packaged: 2017-12-08 10:42:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 48,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/760445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/castielanderson/pseuds/castielanderson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Winchester is a drifter, living out of the back of his car and struggling with addiction.  Castiel Milton has just been released from the hospital, and is having trouble adjusting back to his old, lonely life.</p><p>When Dean gets a job writing for a newspaper in Chicago under the pseudonym, D.J. Smith, Castiel becomes one of his biggest fans - and even more once they finally meet.  But it’s not that simple.  The relationship they build is formed on false assumptions and insecurities, their own self-destructive behaviors threatening to tear them apart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> WARNINGS for this fic include: drug addiction/alcoholism; depression; suicide attempts; psychiatric hospitalization; mentions of murder, homophobia, and multiple character deaths; brief descriptions of drug use and self-harm (burning); allusions to near-sexual assault

Dean finishes off his smoke with one last exhale, then drives his cigarette into the cement next to him, crushing it.  It’s a cold day in the middle of October, the sky full of clouds.  It’s going to rain today, Dean can already tell. 

 _A great day for driving_ , he thinks bitterly.

Currently, he’s in Madison, Wisconsin, but today he’s set on driving to Chicago.  He needs a new town, a new place, a new chance.  He’s grown tired of the bookshop and longs to write again.  Four months ago, when he was writing poetry for that magazine back in Denver, he felt more at peace with the world.  And before that – all of those blogs and newspapers and editorials – he misses it.  He’s gone three months without writing, and he needs to go back.  Freelance writing is the only thing he can do and be content with the life he’s chosen.  That feeling of putting words on a page and creating something beautiful almost makes up for the fact the he lives in his car and spends all of his spare money on cigarettes, alcohol, and over-the-counter medication.

Dean grabs the water bottle from beside him and pours some water into his hand.  He splashes his face and rubs at his eyes, trying to wake and sober himself up.  He’s got his only suit pressed and ironed in the trunk, and if all goes well, he’ll have an interview by the end of the day – maybe a job, if he’s lucky.

Dean tugs at his jacket as he stands up, pulling it tighter around himself before he gets back in his car and turns the keys in the ignition.  The engine struggles to start up, and Dean curses under his breath.  He really needs to find the problem and fix it, but it’s not like he has a lot of money for car parts – especially those of a ’67 Chevy Impala.

He drowns out his sigh with the sound of the radio, telling himself that there’s time to worry about it another day.  Today he has to make it to Chicago and get a job.  (And probably restock his supply of alcohol and cigarettes.) That’s enough on his plate right now.

Pulling onto the highway, Dean starts to relax.  With the road rushing underneath his tires, it feels something like home.  The engine hums and the radio’s blaring classic rock.  Dean’s got three bottles of beer left in the back, and his resume’s been emailed out to several places via Madison’s public library. 

Besides the rain and the quelling nerves, today will hopefully be a good day.

.

.

Chicago is positively bustling.  It’s not even rush hour, and the streets are packed with cars and pedestrians alike.  Dean maneuvers the Impala through the traffic, finally pulling into a stop in front of an old, run-down building.  Dean pulls the newspaper closer to him, looking at the job ad and making sure he’s at the right address.  He is, and with a sigh, he shuts the engine off and gets out of the car.

Heading inside, Dean straightens his tie, breathing deep to calm himself.  He hates interviews, he really does.  He’s got enough experience to back him up, but the procedure still sends his nerves into overdrive.  With his resume tucked safely under his arm, Dean makes his way inside, heading straight for the receptionist’s desk.  It’s small and dingy, and the person behind the desk looks extremely frazzled.

“He – hello,” he says, clearing his throat.  “I’m here for a job interview?”

“Right,” the receptionist says without looking at him.  “Mr. Shurley’s office is just down the hall – the third door on your right.”

“Thank you,” Dean says, sounding unsure.  He remains still for a moment, but the receptionist still doesn’t look up, so he continues on, finding Mr. Shurley’s office.  He hesitates outside the room, smoothing down the lapels of his suit jacket and pressing a hand against the knot of his tie.  He takes a deep breath, and knocks.

“Come in,” is the reply, and carefully, Dean opens the door and peeks his head inside.

“Hello?  I’m – I’m here for an interview.”

A man is sitting at the desk, sleeves loose and beard dusting his face.  He looks up as Dean enters the room, and his tired eyes are outlined by glasses that rest on the bridge of his nose.

“Yes,” he says slowly, sitting up straight.  “You must be Dean Winchester.  I must say, I was very impressed with the resume you emailed me.”  He smiles, holding out a hand and gesturing across from himself.  “Take a seat, Dean.”

Dean crosses the room, feeling a headache already settling in his temples.  He slides into the seat, taking a deep breath as Mr. Shurley settles things on his desk.

“So, Dean tell me – why all the job changes?  Do you cause a lot of trouble?” he asks with a smirk.

Dean shakes his head, “I get bored mostly,” he answers honestly.  “It’s been hard to find a writing job I’m content with.”

“Understandable.  So then – what brings you here?  Why are you interested in working for _Windy City Weekly_?”

“I’ve always wanted to spend time in Chicago,” Dean says, running his fingers over his mouth.  “And honestly – this was the first ad I saw for a writing job.”

Mr. Shurley laughs a little, nodding.  “Well, I have to tell you, Dean – we don’t get a lot of applicants.  This isn’t a popular newspaper.  You won’t be making as much as you could with bigger names.”

“I’m not looking for fame or a vault full of cash,” Dean replies.  “I’m looking for a simple writing job with a good atmosphere.”

“Well,” Mr. Shurley sighs, “I suppose that’ll be up to your opinion, but I’m willing to offer you the job right now – if you want.”

“Really?” Dean asks, perking up.   “I’d be happy to take it.”

“Well, then,” Mr. Shurley says with smirk as he holds out his hand, “welcome to the team, Dean.  You’ll start tomorrow.  Ten o’clock.  We’ll get you settled in an office space and discuss deadlines, as well as writing material and publishing options.”

Dean shakes his hand vigorously, smiling wide in return.  “Thank you – thank you so much, Mr. Shurley.”

He leaves the building with a sense of purpose, a feeling of satisfaction at the prospect of writing again.  He knows that it won’t last, that he’ll be gone again in a couple of months, but he’s content for now and it’s enough.

.

.

Despite being somewhat settled, Dean sleeps uneasily that night.  He curls up in the backseat of the Impala, blanket wrapped tightly around him.  He’s parked on the outskirts of town, underneath the open sky, and he can see the stars just vaguely sparkling overhead.  He watches them dance as too many thoughts run through his mind.

Usually, Dean is content with being a nomad.  He’s content finding jobs that only last a few months at the most.  He’s content being on his own, living with very little money due to the fact he has to satisfy his needs.

But some nights he thinks differently.  Sometimes he’s riddled with shame and anger and frustration with the life he’s chosen.  Dean knows he has a problem, that maybe he could settle down if he really wanted, if he took care of the problem he’s never had the courage to name: _addiction_.  If he actually took the initiative to get better and actually make something of himself, but he doesn’t.  He continues to drink and pop pills and drag himself through each day just to make a little cash.  It’s a vicious cycle of working his ass off only to spend himself dry, never fully satisfied with anything.

In the morning, Dean shakes himself off and puts on the same pants he wore yesterday, this time with a different shirt and tie.  He heads into town and parks across from the _Windy City Weekly_ headquarters again, taking a deep breath before he heads inside for his first day.

Unlike the previous day, the building seems a bit more alive this time.  The receptionist is attentive, and she directs Dean to the main office area with a smile.  Dean steps into the large room with muted apprehension.  Everyone’s working away, the sound of keyboards clicking filling the air.

“Dean!”

He turns, slightly startled as Mr. Shurley comes walking around the corner.  Once again, he looks disheveled, shirt untucked and vest hanging loosely on his small frame.  He grabs Dean by the elbow and leads him forward.

“Welcome, Dean, welcome,” he says cheerfully.  “I’ve got you a place at the back here.  It’s nothing big, but it should suffice.” 

They head to the far side of the room, and Mr. Shurley brings him to a small office space where his name is etched onto a small silver plate hanging on the divider.  Inside is a filing cabinet, a desk, a chunky computer, and a chair.  Dean takes a seat, trying everything on for size.

“This is just a place for you to work when you want to come in,” Mr. Shurley explains.  “Honestly, you don’t have to come in unless you want to, or I ask you to.  As long as I get your pieces by their deadlines, you’ll be fine.  You can email them to me or print them out and bring them in – whatever you want.  You can work here or at home, or – I know some of our younger writers prefer the comfort of coffee shops.  So honestly – whatever hours you want to put in here at the office is fine with me.”

Dean nods, running a hand along his desktop.

“Now, what you’ll be writing,” Mr. Shurley continues, leaning against the doorway of the divider.  “As you know, you applied for the Potpourri section, so you’re free to write about whatever you want – but I have to approve it before we put it into the paper.  And you know – if there are pieces that fit more than others with what others that we publish, I might request something of you, or mix up the pieces you have ready for me.”

Dean nods again.  “Whatever works best for you,” he replies.  “I’m willing to write whatever you need, honestly.  The only thing I need out of this is the opportunity to write, so – “

“Well, it’s understandable if you have writer’s block or something, and something’s not really popping out at you,” Mr. Shurley argues.  “Honestly, Dean.  I don’t expect much from my writers except quality work.  I don’t really enforce guidelines, and maybe I should, but I don’t really.”

“Well, thank you,” Dean says.  “I – I appreciate your compliant attitude.  And um – Mr. Shurley, there’s really only one thing I’d like to request.”

“Anything you need,” Mr. Shurley replies.

“Is it okay if I write under pseudonym?” Dean asks.  “I don’t really like writing openly.”

“Oh, no problem,” Mr. Shurley says, waving a hand.  “Did you have a name in mind?”

“I usually go by D.J. Smith.”

.

.

As much as Cas has disliked it here, he doesn’t want to leave.  At least here he had a place he could pretend he belongs.  Now, he’s got nowhere to go besides an empty apartment that’s sure to be taken any time now by the bank.  He doesn’t have a job, a family, or any friends. 

Nothing.

It’s a chilly day, and Cas stands with his arms crossed as he waits at the bus stop.  He wishes he had a jacket, but it’s not like he had a chance to bring one with him.  Luckily, the bus arrives shortly, and Cas has the chance to warm up as he takes the seat over a heater.

He looks out the window, watching as the streets fly past, and with each new block, Cas feels uneasy.  He’s getting closer and closer to home, but he’s not eager in the slightest.  It’s not home, really.  Cas hasn’t had a home for many, _many_ years – but it is a place to live.  A place he knows he can’t keep if he doesn’t get a job.

He thinks about looking tonight, raiding his dusty closet and finding something nice to wear, but he’s too tired.  He just wants to sleep, wants to curl up on his old, weathered mattress and sleep for days upon days.  But he won’t.  Instead, he makes a promise he’ll go out tomorrow.  He’ll find whatever job he can and start raising money for the rent he needs to catch up on.  He just really hopes his landlord won’t be difficult about setting things up.  He really has no money right now, not with the insane amount he just had to cough up for medical bills.

Almost subconsciously, Cas begins playing with his hospital bracelet, hooking a finger underneath it and twisting it around his wrist.  He should have taken it off the moment he stepped out of that place, but he can’t bring himself to care.  He doesn’t feel self-conscious about it, not when there’s no one to see it. 

Plus, he has other things to worry about.

The bus comes to a halt, and Cas reaches out, catching himself on the seat in front of him.  A man who appears to be a bit older than Cas sits next to him, dark hair tucked into a beanie, a beard coming in nice and full on his face.  Glasses rest on the bridge of his nose, and he’s got a stack of books and papers tucked underneath his arm.

He looks over at Cas, smiling shyly.  Cas tries to grin back, but he’s not sure if it works.  Thankfully, the guy doesn’t broach a conversation, and Cas goes back to staring out the window until they stop again twenty blocks down the road, and the guy gets off.  Cas looks over just in time to see he’d left something on the seat.  He picks up the paper, looking towards the front of the bus, but the guy’s already gotten off.  Cas hopes it wasn’t something he needed, but as he looks down, he finds it’s simply a newspaper.

It’s entitled _Windy City Weekly_ , and as curiosity falls over him, Cas opens the paper up, looking through it.  Somehow, he makes it back to the Potpourri section, written by someone named D.J. Smith.  It’s the title that gets him, in all honesty – _From Bad to Worse: Those Days When Everything Sucks_.  He laughs a little bitterly under his breath.  He’s certainly had his fair share of bad days recently.  Straightening the paper out, he begins reading.

_We’ve all had our fair share of bad days.  The coffeemaker breaks as we get ready, the car won’t start until after the ninth try, we’re late to work, and everything just spirals from there.  However, those little things are nothing compared to dealing with people when you’re in a bad mood._

_First, we have the people who don’t understand the obvious – the ones who make smartass comments like, “Well, looks like somebody woke up on the wrong side of the bed today.”  I know I’m irritable.  You don’t have to tell me.  Of course, nobody quite understands that, and when you are irritable, it’s like some obnoxious beacon that calls for everyone’s attention thrust upon you._

_And maybe worse than those who like to point out what a sourpuss you’re being, are the people who tiptoe around you – the ones who talk in suspiciously high and extra sweet voices.  They smile more often than what one would deem normal, and they’re extremely gentle with you.  It would help, but they create this unnecessary tension with how obviously careful they’re being, and they almost make you want to punch them._

_The best kind of people are the ones who’re having a bad day the same time as you.  You let a curse slip past your lips, and they look up, giving a little nod of understanding, and the two of you share a small bond for the moment._

_Of course, it’s hard to find those people once your bad day turns into a bad week, and you can’t seem to shake it all off.  You become tired, worn out, and all you want is a break, but nobody seems to get it.  People bark at you for being lazy, or side-eye you when you refuse to go out after work, and it’s really, really irritating._

_Sure, it’s not easy to deal with people who are in a bad mood, but it’s not fair for them to be judged because of it, and sometimes I think we forget other people have lives.  Other people have bad days, and bad weeks, and bad months.  And that’s okay.  It’s not our job to make them know, or to try and magically make them feel better, or judge them for the way they handle things._

_Judgment doesn’t help a bad day, and I think that’s something we all need to remember._

Cas lowers the paper, letting the words stick in his mind.  Everything Smith wrote, he agrees with.  He’s had far too many experiences with each of those types of people, and he’ll admit he hates every encounter.  That’s why he wishes he could disappear – to escape all of that, to have some peace from not only the bad days, but the people that come with them.

.

.

Cas fishes the keys out of his pocket, and with a shaky hand, unlocks his door.  The lights are off inside, and Cas flicks them on, looking around his apartment.  It’s just the same, except his cat won’t come running if he calls her name.  His landlord took her to the local Humane Society when he was checked into the hospital.

Cas steps inside, shutting the door behind him carefully.  Its chilly, and Cas deposits his keys on the dust-filled coffee table before heading over to the thermostat.  One thing he doesn’t have to worry about is the water, heating, and electricity bills having been racked up, because nobody’s been in this apartment for over six weeks.

With the heat coming in and light bathing the living room, the feeling of being home is starting to ease back into Cas.  He switches on the small television that rests on the makeshift stand Castiel made out of a bookcase.  Having background noise calms him as he makes his way into his open kitchen, searching for something that hasn’t spoiled yet.

He manages to scrounge up a box of pasta and a can of sauce that’s safe.  He gets the water boiling, and then takes the time waiting to check his messages.  Of course, no one’s called his home phone.  He spent six weeks in the hospital, and no one cared.  Then again, Cas should have expected silence from his family.  His mail and e-mail are the same – only bills and spam.  Not a single word from anyone he knows.

Cas eats his dinner in a stupor, ignoring the stories on the news.  He’s already slipping again, but can anyone blame him?  He’s completely alone.  No one cares about him.  He hasn’t got a family or friends or even co-workers that enjoy his company.  He has nothing.

He still plans to find work, still plans to look back into school, but right now, he just can’t see the point.  This world has nothing for him, and Cas doesn’t want to waste time trying to find something that’s not there.  But the words of the nurses come back, telling him how lucky he was that he survived when he so desperately wished he wouldn’t have, and he can’t help that small nag he feels to keep pushing, to see if maybe they’re right after all.  Maybe Cas can finding meaning in this mess he calls his life.  He doubts it, but he’s going to try.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All opinions expressed by D.J. Smith are that of the character and not in any way expressions of my own beliefs.

When Castiel was nine, he almost drowned in a pond. 

It was just an average summer day.  The sun was out, the cloud count was low, and living in the middle of nowhere meant they had to find their own means of entertainment.  There was a pond just a ways down the hill, and the Miltons used it constantly for swimming.

Previously, Castiel – one of the youngest Miltons – had not been allowed to swim.  His older siblings could because they knew how, but Castiel had never learned.  It was on this day that Lucifer decided Castiel should finally learn.  Michael insisted on teaching Castiel himself, but Lucifer disagreed.  He scooped Castiel up in his arms and carried him into the pond.  Castiel fought as soon as he realized what Lucifer’s intentions were, kicking and screaming at Michael for help. 

“Oh, calm down,” Lucifer said lazily, but Castiel continued to writhe in his arms.  At last, Lucifer let him go, dropping him straight into the water.  The center of the pond was deep, and Castiel’s feet did not touch the bottom.  He struggled to stay afloat, choking on the water.

“Lucifer – “ he gasped, fighting for air.  “Lucifer, I can’t – I – “

“Stop splashing around like that,” Lucifer said, holding up his hands to keep the water from reaching his face.  “Just relax, and you’ll float, Cas.”

But relaxing was the farthest thing from Castiel’s mind.  If he didn’t keep fighting the pull of the water, he was sure he’d go under.  He only kicked harder and waved his arms around a little faster, leaning his head back so he could get as much air as possible to his lungs.  But it wasn’t enough.  Castiel’s arms and legs grew tired and the struggle became too much.  His head plunged under the surface, his lungs quickly filling with water.

Things grew hazy almost instantly.  Above him, Castiel could see the light that was the surface, and it was unreachable.  He pushed a hand up, but he couldn’t stretch that far.  His body began to curl up as it began to lose all of its oxygen.  Castiel’s head was starting to spin, but not in a sickening way.  It was almost as if he was in fact floating, rather than sinking.  He felt detached from his body. 

It was peaceful.

But the next thing he knew, an arm was wrapped around his waist, hauling him upward.  He broke the surface of the water, coughing and spluttering.  In a second, he was back in the grass heaving and choking up water.  A hand clapped on his back one, two, three, four times, helping him get everything up.  When he was finished, Michael, dripping wet, leaned down next to him, rubbing between his shoulder blades.

“Are you okay, Cas?”

He nodded, swallowing against his raw throat.

Years and years later, and Castiel still thinks about that day.  He remembers the pull of death, and the tranquility that came with it.  He can’t help but compare it to the difficulty of life – how it’s much harder it is to push through that tugging feeling.

Sometimes he wonders how different things would be if Michael had not saved him.

.

.

Dean rubs the cash between his forefingers, feeling the beat of his headache pounding against his skull.  He needs painkillers, and he needs them now.  Thankfully, it’s payday, and he finally has enough money to spare.

He hurries into the drugstore, striding past other shoppers as he heads to the right aisle.  He grabs three bottles of different painkillers and heads up to the counter.  The guy ahead of him is apparently waiting on a prescription of anti-depressants, judging by his argument with the pharmacist.  Dean groans internally; he doesn’t have the patience to put up with this.

Thankfully, the guy gets his prescription quickly, and Dean moves up to purchase his items.  He feels a little uneasy as the pharmacist looks over the painkillers, but she says nothing, and Dean forks over the cash to pay for them.  He wishes the pharmacist a good day before he heads out, sliding back into his car. 

He pops the cap off one of the bottles and pours a handful of pills into his palm.  He counts them out, worried about the week he’s missed and decides to put a few of them back.  He should be safe then.  He doesn’t want to risk an overdose.  Just enough to kick these withdrawals in the ass. 

With a sense of relief, Dean throws his head back and chucks the pills into his mouth.  He swallows them with a swig of beer, and almost instantly – probably with a little “mind over matter” – he starts to feel a little better. 

Now, with his glove box filled with painkillers, cigarettes, and a bottle of vodka, Dean’s comfortably on his way, mind brimming with ideas for his next article.  The praise for his last one came pouring in, much to Mr. Shurley’s surprise and delight, and Dean’s ready to match it, if not exceed.

.

.

Cas stands over the sink, palm open and facing up, a single pill resting in his hand.  His other hand presses against the counter, holding him up.  He’s nervous, weary of taking the medication, but the doctors said it would help, would make him feel better.  He isn’t sure how accurate their statements are, but he figures it’s worth a shot.  He’s sick, isn’t he?  That’s what they tell him.  It’s an illness, and an illness needs medication.

After taking a deep breath, Cas places the pill on his tongue.  His hand shakes as he grabs the cup of water off the counter and brings it to his lips.  His stomach crawls with nerves as he swallows but he repeats, _it’s to help you, it’s to help you, it’s to help you,_ over and over again in his mind to calm himself.

Carefully, Cas picks up the pill bottle, rolling it over in his hand and inspecting it.  These aren’t illegal drugs, and he knows that.  They were prescribed to him by a doctor.  _They’re safe_ , he reminds himself.  _They’re safe_.  And if they don’t work like they’re supposed to, he’s to call his doctor back, and they’ll switch them.  They’ll work until they can find something that does.

Cas closes his eyes for a minute, releasing his death grip on the bottle.  He takes a few more deep breaths before he sets it back down, calmer. 

He opens his eyes, looking into the mirror, and he forces a smile.  He looks so old, he thinks, so much older than twenty-five, but that’s probably just his imagination, just the sleepless nights and the lack of appetite.  He’ll be okay again.  He will be.

He will.

.

.

Job ads in hand, Castiel makes his way through the crowded streets of Chicago.  He tries three different places for work.  As it turns out, the department store has already filled their vacancy.  At the bank, Cas doesn’t quite meet the standards.  At the gas station – well, he’ll admit he just doesn’t like the company.  The fourth place is a café and coffee shop owned by one Pamela Barnes, just ten short blocks from Cas’ apartment.

A bell sounds as Castiel steps inside, and he sees that a respectful number of customers are spread out across the mismatched tables.  It’s a quaint and unique little place, and Cas thinks that he’d enjoy working in the calm and quiet.

Uncertain, Castiel approaches the counter, resume in hand.  A woman with dark hair stands behind the cash register, a red apron hanging from her shoulders.

“How can I help you today, sir?”

“I’m – I saw your ad in the paper, and I was wondering if I might be able to get an interview.”

The woman smiles.  “Sure, sugar.  Got a name?”

“Castiel.”

“Ooh,” she replies.  “Sounds exotic.  I like it.”

“It’s the name of the Angel of Thursday,” Castiel says, blushing.  “Uh – look – can I – can I just talk to the owner?  This said her name was Pamela Barnes?”  He holds up the newspaper, gesturing to it lazily.

“I am Pamela Barnes, honey,” the woman replies.  “You can see why I need a little help around here.  It’s only me on the clock until noon today.  Unless . . . you wanna pop on one of those aprons and come back here?”

Castiel stares at her for a moment, disbelieving.  “That’s it?  No interview?  No background checks?  Just like that.”

Pamela nods.  “Just like that.”

Castiel grins, and his skin feels peculiarly tight.  “Thank you, Pamela.  I really appreciate it.”

“Oh believe me, I’m not doing it out of generosity.  I’m desperate here, honey.  Now get back here, and get to work,” she orders with a smirk.

Castiel doesn’t hesitate.  He hurries around the corner and grabs an apron from the hook next to a large coffee dispenser.  He throws it around his neck and ties it behind his back, feeling the tightness in his chest disperse ever-so-slightly. 

He feels a little surge of pride as he steps up beside Pamela.  Slowly but surely, he’s integrating himself back into society, and this is a big step.

.

.

Dean stops in his tracks when he enters his cubicle and finds his desk littered with envelopes.  He pulls his bag from his shoulder and drops it to the floor before he tiptoes forward carefully.

“Hey, Garth,” Dean says to his workspace neighbor.

“Yeah?” comes the reply.

“What the hell are all of these letters on my desk?”

“Fanmail, I’m pretty sure.”

Dean blinks, surprised.  “Fanmail?  Are you serious?  Like people writing to me – praising my work?”

“It could be hatemail too,” Garth says, and Dean can hear the shrug in his voice.  “Everyone gets mail, Dean.  People who read our paper like to reply to the stories, and Chuck distributes out the ones that are addressed to certain people.”

“Does everyone get as many letters as this?” Dean asks, feeling overwhelmed as he sits down at his desk.

It takes only a second before Garth’s head pops over the divider, and he’s peering down at the replies littering Dean’s desk, eyes wide.  “Holy shit,” he mutters.  “I didn’t even think that many people _read_ our newspaper.”

“I’m going to take that as a good thing for now,” Dean mumbles.

Garth hops down and makes his way around, joining Dean in his cubicle.  “Man, I’ve never seen anyone get this many responses.  You better brace yourself Dean, I think you’re in for an upsurge in popularity.”

“I’ve written _three_ articles,” Dean says in disbelief, looking up at Garth.  “I mean I know Mr. Shurley said the replies were really coming in, but I – I didn’t think he meant like this.  I feel like I should be worried or something.”

“Why?” Garth asks with a chuckle.  “This is good, Dean.  You have a fresh, new style, and people apparently like what you have to say.  I’d roll with it if I were you.”

Dean hums in responses, reaching forward and beginning to sort through his fanmail, names blurring together as he reads the return addresses.  He really does feel overwhelmed and more than a little taken aback.  Forget that the newspaper hasn’t received response like this, _Dean’s_ never received a response like this – not for any of his work.

“You gonna be okay, man?” Garth asks, and Dean gives himself a small shake.

“Yeah,” he says absentmindedly.  “Yeah, I just – I’m starting to feel the pressure, I guess.”  He laughs a little, but it comes out more awkward than anything.

“Don’t worry about a thing,” Garth replies.  “You really don’t have to do anything to impress Mr. Shurley.  Plus, you write under a pseudonym.  No one knows who you are.”

“I still feel it,” Dean argues, and he honestly can’t help it.  He hasn’t even read a response yet, but he knows that with this many people interested and willing to share their thoughts with Dean, he’s got some expectations to meet, a reputation to uphold.

“I’ll talk to you later, alright Garth?” he says, mind slipping away.  “I’ve – I’ve got to get to work.”

.

.

Castiel’s first day at the café isn’t too bad.  Pamela’s extremely nice and cooperative, and by the end of his shift, Castiel feels like they’ve formed some kind of kinship.  It’s been a long time since Castiel’s had any sort of affection given to him, and while he thinks some of Pamela’s comments to be a little inappropriate, he can tell that she means well, that she’s a very caring person underneath it all, and he’s more than glad to have her as his boss as well as potentially a friend.

The job itself is simple.  The café isn’t a center bustling with activity.  The customers are calm, relaxed, and the atmosphere is almost soothing, therapeutic in a way.  In turn, Castiel gets to feel a sense of purpose and self-worth, but it comes with little to no stress.  It’s good for him.  The money is simply a plus in his eyes.

Around eight, Cas and Pamela beginning closing up.

The late-evening crowd has left, and the street is becoming progressively emptier.  Pamela flips the sign on the front door and turns down the lights. 

“Alright, Castiel,” she says.  “I’m going to shut down everything behind the counter.  You can start by wiping down the tables and stacking the chairs on top of them.  After that, you can mop the floor, and you should be good.”

Cas gives a nod before crouching down and grabbing the cleaning supplies from under the sink.  He fills a bucket with water and soap and grabs an old, ratty rag.  Exhaustion is just starting to grip him when he begins cleaning off the tables.  It really has been a long day, but for some reason, it seemed to have gone by quite fast for Cas.

Near the back, there’s a table that’s been left particularly messy, and in one of the seats is a newspaper.   Cas picks it up, curious once again, and sees that just like the other day, it’s titled _Windy City Weekly_.  He turns it over in his hands, glancing at the headlines.

“Pamela,” he says after a moment.

“Yeah, honey?”

“This newspaper,” Cas says, turning around and glancing back at her.  “Pamela, what do you know about _Windy City Weekly_?”

“Well,” Pamela starts, “I have a subscription.”  She points towards a rack sitting next to the counter, and Cas sees that it’s filled halfway with newspapers.  He doesn’t know how he missed that before.  “It’s a great paper,” Pamela continues, “and it’s quite popular with college-age kids.”

Cas nods, looking down at it again.  “I read an article the other day.  By D.J. Smith.”

Pamela laughs a little.  “D.J. Smith,” she repeats.  “He’s new, you know.  He’s only had about three articles published, but I already love him.  He’s got a great sense of humor, that man.  Intelligent too, by the looks of it.  He’s got great ideas and opinions.”

Cas smiles to himself, searching for the Potpourri section.  “I certainly agree,” he mutters, locating Smith’s newest article.  He feels a little uneasy as he sees the headline, but after the first sentence, he’s smirking, very happy with what Smith has to say.

LABELS: AN ODE TO SEXUALITY AND MAN’S RIDICULOUS NOTIONS  
by D.J. Smith

 _In just the past few days, I’ve received a number of letters from all of you_ Windy City Weekly _readers out there, and well, it seems that many of you are curious about my opinions on an array of subjects and issues.  One of the most popular ones was sexuality, and as many of you could probably tell already, I’m not really a conservative guy._

_I won’t disclose to you my own sexuality, because that would kind of defeat the purpose of what I have to say next.  In all honesty, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with being gay or bisexual or pansexual or asexual.  Have sex with whoever the hell you want – honestly, I don’t care.  (Except maybe animals or small children.  I would not condone that kind of behavior)._

_Of course, I do get frustrated with ignorance and prejudice.  I really don’t understand the huge debates that threaten our society.  I’m not a huge fan of marriage myself, but I really couldn’t care less if you want to marry someone of your own sex.  You’re in love, you care about each other, you’re respectful and polite people, so why the hell not?  Go on – get hitched._

_What bothers me when it comes down to all is our obsession with labels.  Labels, labels, labels.  So many of us crave to have all of these words attached to us – gay, straight, nerd, cool, etc.  In the process, we allow for names that we might not want – slut, whore, faggot, loser, etc.  Essentially, having a sexual identification is an easy way to say “Hey, I have a preference for men,” but really, do we need to shout it from the rooftops?  Do we really need to have a big-ass rainbow tattooed on our foreheads for the rest of our lives?  It’s ridiculous, it really is._

_I just feel like we waste so much time worrying about these kinds of things.  We waste so much time trying to fit ourselves in these words that can’t even define us.  And others waste so much time making judgments and assumptions on these words we decide to associate ourselves with.  Wouldn’t it just be so much easier if we could date anyone we wanted without the sneering comments like, “Oh, what a shame.  Always knew he was a fag.”  Or, invasive inquiries such as, “Oh, I had no idea you were gay,” when in actuality someone might be bisexual or pansexual._

_By giving ourselves these labels, we’ve opened up doors for so many negative things such as stereotypes, common prejudices, and misconceptions.  Like I stated previously, I don’t have a problem with anyone being of a certain sexuality or gender identity, I’m just simply concerned with our desires to be defined by words and to conform to the ideals of said words.  I feel that life would be so much simpler if we could just go about our days without calling for response and retaliation due to a simple word we’ve placed over our heads._

Cas lets the paper fall, folding it back up and dropping his arm.  Once again, D.J. Smith has managed to raise an impressive argument in something that hits close to home for Castiel – since being gay has had a huge factor in why he’s had so many “bad days” in his lifetime.

For some reason, Cas feels comforted.  Knowing this man – this D.J. Smith, who seems so wise and strong-minded – knowing that he believes in the things he does, knowing that he’d be okay with Cas’ sexuality, knowing that he understands what bad days are really like for Cas, it’s nice.  It’s a small reassurance that he’s not entire alone in this world, and for a moment, Cas entertains the thought of buying a subscription to this magazine himself.  And he would, except –

“Pamela?”

“Yes, sweetie?”

“You wouldn’t mind if I took this newspaper, would you?”

Pamela laughs.  “No – go right ahead.  In fact, take one every week, would you?  I always have too many left over.  You’d help the mess if you took some.”

Cas smiles, and it feels so foreign.  “Thank you, Pamela.”

“No problem, Castiel,” she replies.  “Now, come on – we’ve got to clean up these floors.”

Cas crosses the room and drops the newspaper on the counter, keeping it safe until he heads home.  As he and Pamela finish cleaning up, his mind runs wild with thoughts about Smith – wondering where exactly he came from, what he looks like, how old he is.  He knows he’ll probably never run into Smith, but when he doesn’t meet many guys like this elusive writer, thoughts are easy to entertain.


	3. Chapter 3

“Bogged down again in your cubicle, I see.”

Dean doesn’t even turn at the sound of Mr. Shurley’s voice.  He keeps plucking away at his fanmail, looking through each response and throwing out the ones that are flimsy proclamations of love or angry rants.  He’s looking for the ones that are well thought-out, ones that could give him prompts for future articles.  So far, he’s not finding many good responses.

“Dean?”

“Sorry,” he says quickly, dropping a letter from his hands and turning around.  “Sorry, I was just – “

“You do know you have five articles queued up, right?” Mr. Shurley asks, raising an eyebrow.  “I mean – I appreciate all of your hard work, Dean, but don’t overexert yourself.”

Dean waves it off, scoffing.  “I’m fine.  Don’t worry about it, Mr. Shurley.”

“Well,” Mr. Shurley starts, crossing his arms and leaning against the divider, “at the very least – stop holing yourself up here.  Go home and write, write in a café, in a library.  Honestly, this place is pretty dingy if you haven’t noticed.”

“I’ve noticed,” Dean says with a smirk.  “And honestly, I don’t mind working down here.  It’s soothing.”

Mr. Shurley nods.  “To each their own, I suppose.”  There’s a pause before he picks up a new conversation.  “Well, anyway, Dean – I just came over here to ask you a question.”

Dean looks up, more attentive.  “Yeah?”

“Well, by the looks of your fanmail, I’m sure you’ve noticed how popular your articles have become – both in the paper and online.  All those extras I’ve put up have dozens of comments and are nearing views in the thousands.  That’s impressive for us.”

Dean feels a blush creeping up his cheeks, and he tries desperately to hide it.

“You’ve gained the attention of many people, Dean, and one of those people is the producer of one of the University of Chicago’s student-organized radio stations – _The Uni Underground_.  Their morning host would love the chance to interview you next Friday.  Would you be up for that?”

Dean stares for a moment, not exactly sure he heard right.  Three weeks. Three weeks he’s been writing for this paper and already, somebody wants to interview him?  Surely this is some kind of joke.

“Are you serious?” Dean asks disbelievingly.

“I’m dead serious,” Mr. Shurley replies.  “Got the e-mail this morning.  They want an answer by the end of the day.”

Dean laughs slightly, a huge smile breaking out across his face.  “Well, of course I’ll do it.  I’d be glad to.”

“You sure?” Mr. Shurley asks.

Dean nods.  “Absolutely.  Sign me up.”

“But what about not wanting people to know who you are?” Mr. Shurley asks, and Dean shrugs.

“They’re not going to see my face, and honestly – my voice isn’t that distinctive.  As long as they address me with my pseudonym, I’m fine.  Seriously, man – tell ‘em I’ll be there.”

“Alright,” Mr. Shurley says, chuckling.  “I’ll send an e-mail right now.  Good luck with whatever you’re working on.”  He turns, heading back to his office, and Dean wants to fist-pump the air.

He doesn’t, but he does grin like an idiot for the rest of the day.  It’s strange, receiving all of this praise, but Dean’s gone so long without someone giving a rat’s ass about him, and it’s nice.  It’s nice to know that people appreciate his work, that they value his thoughts and his opinions, that they support him in what he does.  It’s such a huge change from the life he’s previously led, and now, Dean’s beginning to think that just maybe he’ll stay longer than just a few months in Chicago.  As long as his writing career is taking off, he plans to stick around.

.

.

Cas hurries inside the café, eager to escape the rain.  He couldn’t find an umbrella this morning, and now he’s wondering if he ever owned one in the first place.  He’s still having a hard time adjusting.  It’s not easy keeping track of things after being gone from the world for a solid six months.

“I apologize for being late,” Cas says as he comes around the counter and hangs up his jacket on one of the hooks by the kitchen doors.  “The weather was terrible to walk through, otherwise I would have been here sooner.”

Pamela looks over her shoulder, staring at him curiously.  “You don’t have a car?  Or at the very least – an umbrella?”

Castiel shakes his head as he ties on his apron. 

“Well, why not take the bus?”

“I can’t afford to spend money where I don’t need to,” Cas explains.  “I’m behind on my rent, and I’m still in serious debt due to some medical complications I had recently.”  He turns and lets out a sneeze into his arm.

“Well, if you keep going on like this, you’re going to have more medical complications,” Pamela says.  “Seriously, Castiel – you’re as thin as a rail.  When was the last time you ate?  You certainly don’t eat around here.  Which is surprising since most of my previous employees were notorious for stealing food.”

Cas shrugs.  “Yesterday morning, I think.  I don’t keep tabs on my appetite, really.  I have too many things to worry about.”  He sighs, leaning up against the counter next to Pamela.

“Oh, for God’s sake, Castiel,” Pamela mutters.  “You need to take better care of yourself, honey.”

Cas sighs.  “I know.  I just don’t care.”

He averts his eyes, knowing Pamela is giving him a heartbroken look.  He’ll never understand that – how people can get so worked up about other’s lack of concern for themselves.  Castiel’s responsibility to himself is just that – his own.  Pamela shouldn’t worry about that, shouldn’t worry about him not taking care of himself.  That’s something he has to do on his own, and he hates thinking that others might work themselves up over it.

“Pamela, don’t worry,” Cas says, offering an insincere smile.  “I’m just trying to get back into the swing of things.  Once I have bills and everything else settled, I’ll be fine – okay?”

Pamela doesn’t answer right away.  She simply stares at Cas with a disbelieving look.  Her expression softens after a moment, and she leans forward, lowering her voice.  “Castiel – look, you know I’m not just your boss, right?  I care about you, kid.  And if you ever need help with anything – anything at all, I’m here for you, alright?”

Cas bites his lip to keep from snapping.  He can’t stand that.  He can’t deal with people caring about him – especially people he’s only known for a week.  He doesn’t feel he deserves it.  Why should anyone care about him when he doesn’t even care about himself?

He wants to tell Pamela to stop, to turn her cheek and not waste a single thought on him, but he doesn’t.  Instead, he says, “Thank you,” and it sounds too sincere for his liking.

“Any time,” Pamela replies, clapping him on the back.

He swallows hard, reminding himself to breathe.  He hopes one day that it won’t be so hard, that one day he can form real relationships without feeling a sense of panic.

.

.

It’s cold, and the ground underneath Dean is wet, but he’s way too high to care.  He tries to think back, tries to remember how he got here, but he finds it difficult.  He was happy, that much he remembers.  He was happy because his writing career is going well and Mr. Shurley booked him that interview for tomorrow morning. 

But then –

The picture of Sam. 

He found that picture of Sam in the back his binder.  Dean feels violently sick, and he has to breathe deep to keep from throwing up.  He closes his eyes, wishing he could sleep, but it just won’t come.  He’s dazed and groggy, but his mind is too loud to allow him to doze off.

Memories are flashing quickly through his mind, and Sam’s voice rings in his ear –

_“You never cared about me, Dean – don’t lie!  If you had, you would have supported me and not taken Dad’s side like you always did!”_

_“Forget it, Dean!”_

_“Don’t contact me – don’t even think about it.  Just get out of my life, and leave me alone!”_

The sound of glass shattering fills Dean’s ears, and he feels something warm and wet trickling down his arm.  He looks blearily at his hand to find he’s crushed the vodka bottle with his own grip.  With a huge amount of effort, Dean drags himself back to his car.  He finds a T-shirt and wraps it around his hand, finding some kind of sick solace in the way the wound burns.

However, after a moment – he’s not sure how long – he’s fumbling through the glove box, searching desperately for a bottle of painkillers.  His fingers find one, and he pops off the cap clumsily, pouring a good dosage into his mouth. 

Soon enough, the pain – both physical and emotional – is gone, and Dean’s fast asleep in the passenger’s seat.

.

.

Cas is almost grateful for the blare of the alarm clock that pierces through his nightmares.  Then he realizes he has to get up and go to work after a horrible night of sleep, and he’s not so grateful anymore.  He pulls himself out of bed reluctantly and heads to the bathroom.

He rubs at his eyes and for a moment, stares at himself in the mirror.  He can see why Pamela worries about him so much – even if he doesn’t like it.  He really looks awful, much worse than he first arrived back home.  He’s probably lost even more weight, and his eyes look dark and sunken in.  His skin is pale, stretched tight across his bones.

He reaches up, running a hand through his hair and takes a deep breath.  Maybe Pamela’s right – if he keeps up like this, he’ll end up back in the hospital.  This is how it started last time.  The neglect, the horribly negative attitude, the closing himself off.  It wasn’t long before it developed into the sinister acts that landed him in the hospital in the first place.

Cas opens up the medicine cabinet and pulls out his pills, staring at the bottle.  They’re supposed to be making him better, aren’t there?  So far, he doesn’t feel much better.  He feels overwhelmed and confused and like he doesn’t belong back in the world just yet, but at the same time, he doesn’t want to go back to the hospital.

Mostly, he just wants to disappear.

Cas screws the cap back onto the pill bottle and puts it away.  They told him it would take time.  Days, weeks maybe for the pills to work, but Cas doesn’t know if he can wait that long.  He’s waited long enough already, and he’s becoming far too exhausted.

Finishing his morning routine, Cas pushes the thoughts away.  He brushes his teeth, showers, and gets dressed, and then he’s in the kitchen with the radio on as usual, building up his façade as he does every day.  He needs Pamela to believe he’s okay, so he wakes himself up with a cup of coffee and hopes that’ll shake the darkness from his eyes.

The familiar voice of Kasey Walsh crackles out of the radio’s speakers as Cas makes himself a piece of toast.  Her peppy voice usually annoys him, but for some reason he never changes the channel.  This morning, she seems extra excited, and when Cas hears why, he can’t help but agree with her hyperactive attitude.

_“Alright,_ Underground _listeners, I’ve got a very special surprise for you today.  I know a lot of you have heard the buzz about_ Windy City Weekly _and their newest writer, and I’m sure many, many of you enjoy his articles.  So, as a special treat, I’m bringing you the man himself – Mr. D.J. Smith!”_

There’s a cut of pre-recorded applause as Castiel’s heart stops and he moves quickly to turn up the volume.

_“How you doing today, Mr. Smith?”_

_“I’m doing well,”_ comes the reply, _“and please – call me D.J.”_

Kasey giggles, and Cas rolls his eyes. _“Alright, D.J. – tell me, how does it feel to be single-handedly responsible for_ Windy City Weekly _’s sudden spike in readers?”_

_“Well, I – I don’t think that it’s just – just me, per se,”_ D.J stutters.

_“Oh, don’t sugarcoat it,”_ Kasey says.  _“The stats agree.  Subscriptions came pouring in after you joined the writing team.  So – what’s it been like?”_

_“Well, I – I mean it’s flattering,”_ D.J. admits, and Cas is already melting at the man’s humbleness.   _“I’ve never really been a successful writer in any sense of the word, so it’s certainly encouraging.”_

_“Where else have you written?”_

_“Uh.. a lot of places.  I’m kind of a drifter.”_

Castiel feels his eyebrows rise.  The more he hears D.J. speak, the more intrigued he is.

_“Interesting, Interesting,”_ Kasey remarks. _“So, you’ve never been able to find any success before this?  That’s quite a shocker, given your talent.”_

_“I’m not that great,”_ D.J. replies hurriedly.  _“Most of what I’ve learned has just been on my own.  I’m not what you would call a ‘scholarly type.’”_

_“Sugarcoating,”_ Kasey says again, this time in a sing-song voice.

D.J. laughs awkwardly, and Cas feels his heart skip a beat.  He bites his lip, very aware of the dizziness that’s overcome him, and he gives himself a shake, feeling stupid.  He doesn’t even _know_ D.J. for God’s sake.

_“Alright, continuing on.  Since you’re a drifter, how do you like Chicago so far?  Was it everything you expected?”_

_“Kind of, and not really,”_ D.J. answers.  _“I haven’t gotten around much, but from what I’ve seen of it, it’s better than what I imagined.  I really like it here.”_

_“Now, about your writing,”_ Kasey starts.  _“Is there a certain method you have for writing your articles, or do you just write whatever comes to mind?”_

_“It’s kind of a mixture of both, I guess,”_ D.J. replies, almost questioningly.  _“I’ve never really had a certain method, but I don’t just slap words together.  I map out points that I want to press on and kind of go from there.”_

_“Where do you get your inspiration?”_

_“Um… personal experience, mostly,”_ D.J. replies. _“The first article I had published – the one about bad days – that was written because I had just arrived in town after quitting my last job, and I was just a huge mess, and I mean, hey – they say write about what you know, don’t they?”_

_“They certainly do.”_

_“And well, more recent articles – I get a lot of response from the readers, so I tend to draw inspiration from their questions and really just what they’re interested in hearing about.  If something really hits me while I’m reading through the replies, I’ll usually try to work with that.”_

_“So you get a lot of fanmail, then?”_ Kasey asks, and Cas is starting to feel bad for D.J.

Obviously he doesn’t like making himself about to be some kind of Stephen King, but of course, Kasey can’t take a hint and she just keeps pushing.  As predicted, D.J. tries to play it off.

_“Well, a good chunk of it is people disagreeing with me – especially on that last article about sexuality and labels.  I got a lot of conservatives, as well as people happy with labeling themselves and claiming that I’m just some ‘heteronomative conformist who doesn’t want to have to have LGBTQ+ rights forced upon him’ – which is completely ridiculous because that’s the exact opposite of what I was trying to say.”_

_“And you still won’t let slip what team you bat for?  A lot of people are curious.”_

_“Hey  – I said I don’t like labels.  Therefore, I don’t label myself.”_

_“Will you at least tell us if you’re single or not?”_

_“I’m single,”_ D.J. says, chuckling.  _“But I’m not necessarily looking for anybody, so don’t get your hopes up.”_

_“Oh, we will,”_ Kasey retorts, laughing her obnoxious laugh. _“And just one last thing, D.J. – where do you plan to go from here?  Should your popularity reach its peak, would you go somewhere else – especially if a better offer were given to you?”_

_“I can honestly say I don’t know,”_ D.J. says.  _“I’ve never really dealt with anything like that.  It’s always been me scouring for jobs.  I haven’t necessarily ever had them handed to me, so I guess we’ll just have to see.  I will say I really do like working at_ Windy City Weekly _, and I really appreciate everything they’re doing for me over there.”_

_“Well, I must say, D.J. – it’s been a pleasure having you on this morning.  Thank you for joining us.”_

_“Thank you for having me.”_

_“No problem.  And there you have it_ Underground _listeners – some exclusive secrets revealed to you by D.J. Smith himself.  It’s time for a break, now, but afterward, I’ve got some sweet tracks queued up by some awesome local bands.  See you in a few.”_

Cas turns down the volume once again as the commercials start up.  He doesn’t know what it is about this D.J. Smith guy.  He doesn’t know why his name and his work keep popping up in Cas’ life, but he’s not about to question it.  This guy is obviously intelligent and obviously someone who could understand Cas’ current situation, and even if they don’t know each other, Cas can’t help but feel like they’re some kind of kindred spirits.

And, somewhere inside of him, Cas knows he’s got a bit of a crush on D.J.  Everything he’s written, the interview he just gave – Cas agrees and he approves, and there’s so much about D.J. that he craves to know.  D.J. appears to be like no one Cas has ever met, and he feels so drawn to this mysterious man.

Cas knows they probably won’t ever meet – Chicago’s a huge city, and D.J. is probably has better things to do than hang around in Cas’ neighborhood.  Still, he can’t help but dream about it, imagining the two of them hitting it off and getting into rousing discussions about a few of D.J.’s articles.  He imagines sitting in some nice restaurant, eating a nice dinner Cas can’t afford, dressed in nice clothes that Cas doesn’t own, and he wishes so desperately that it could come true.

Cas hasn’t been happy for a long time, hasn’t had anything to keep him going.  He’s been alone and sad and tired for years even, and even if he can’t meet D.J. himself, Cas just wants to meet _somebody_ like that.  Somebody who understands, who gets it.  Somebody who can help him through everything and make him feel like it’s all worth it.

It won’t happen, Cas knows that –

But still, it can’t hurt to dream, right?

.

.

And as Cas finds out just two days later, it doesn’t hurt, because dreams just sometimes come true.


	4. Chapter 4

As he walks through the streets, people rushing past him and cars honking loudly all around, Dean understands why he’s taken refuge so often at the office or in his car.  He’s never been a big fan of the world, much less when it’s crowded.

(He’d probably be in a much better mood if he had some heavier drugs in him and wasn’t going through withdrawals, but that’s a story for another day.)

In the beginning, it seemed like a good idea.  You know – maybe Mr. Shurley was right, maybe Dean should get out and see the town a little bit, find another nook where he could write in peace.  But now he’s out here, looking extremely tacky in aviator sunglasses when the sky is overcast, and he’s had about six people shove him into the walls of passing buildings as they walk past.  He’d head back to his car, but he’s pretty sure it’s about to rain, and there’s a café ahead that looks like it’s probably warm inside.

Picking up the pace, Dean hurries into The Moonlit Café, shivering a little at the temperature change.  The place isn’t too busy, and thankfully, it’s quiet – save for the soft music playing overhead.  Dean’s hand closes over the money sitting in his jacket pocket.  That’s a new thing – having money.  With the upsurge in subscriptions, everyone got at least a small raise, Dean much more.

Dean looks up at the menu board, and his headache gives a pulse as he wishes for alcohol.  Of course, it’s ten-thirty in the morning, so that’s a little suspicious.  Reluctantly he settles on coffee and heads for the cashier, pulling his sunglasses off.

“Good morning.  How may I help you?”

“I’ll have a small coffee – just – just black, please.”

“Anything else?”

“No,” Dean says.  “No – no thank you.”

“Alright that’ll be – “

The cashier stops mid-sentence, and Dean looks back to find the guy staring at him curiously.  “What?” he asks, feeling self-conscious.

“Noth – nothing,” the cashier replies, and he clears his throat.  “Sorry.  That’ll be four dollars and fifteen cents.”

Dean hands over a five, muttering, “Keep the change.” 

“Oh – thank you,” the cashier says, grabbing the coffee that’s handed to him by another employee.

“No problem,” Dean replies, taking the coffee from him.  “Have a good day.”

“You – you too.”

Dean turns, more than a little confused with this guy, but he shakes it off as he heads to find a booth near a window.

.

.

Castiel wasn’t expecting much – just another boring day on the job, trying hopelessly to rack up enough money to pay off his rent and medical bills before he got kicked out of his apartment or attacked by the bank. 

But around ten-thirty, the unthinkable happens. 

He’s standing behind the counter, counting down the minutes when another, seemingly average customer walks in.  Cas doesn’t think much of it, but then the guy opens his mouth and _talks_ , and that’s it.  Ever since that interview, D.J. Smith’s voice has been catalogued in his brain.  Every time dark things dance on the edge of his mind, Castiel has replayed a part of that interview to himself. 

And he _knows_ – he’s ninety-nine-point-nine percent positive that D.J. Smith is standing right in front of him, ordering a black coffee.  Of course, he doesn’t have the courage to say anything right away.  He hands D.J. his coffee and watches as he heads over to a booth on the far side of the café, heart racing inside his chest as he succumbs to internal debate on whether or not to talk to D.J.

“Cas?  Hello – Cas?”

He turns, pulling himself back to reality.

“Sorry, what?”

“We need to restock the display case.  Will you grab some cookies from the back?”

“Yes – I – “ he stops himself, remembering that if he could mention this to anyone, it’d be – “Pamela?”

“Yes?”

“I – I think I just sold coffee to D.J. Smith.”

Pamela turns around, staring at Cas with the utmost confusion.  “What?”

“I’m serious,” Cas says defensively.  “He – he did a radio interview a couple of days ago, and I know it might be a tad creepy, but I know his voice.  I know it was him.”

“What?  Well, who – who is he?  Which customer?”

Cas can’t help but smile as he steps up behind Pamela, taking her shoulders and turning her to face D.J. 

“He’s right there,” Cas whispers.  “Dark blond hair, wearing a leather jacket.”

“Shut up,” Pamela hisses.  “Oh my _God_ – he’s gorgeous.”

“I know,” Castiel replies, and he starts a little as he realizes what he just said.

Pamela turns then, smirking.  “I knew it.”

“What?” Cas asks, automatically deflecting.

“That you’re gay,” Pamela replies, and a smug expression comes over her face.  “Could tell after you finished your first day.”

Cas feels a blush rising up his neck.  “How?” he asks, disbelieving.

“You checked out one too many guys, sugar.”

Cas rolls his eyes, holding the panicky feelings inside.  He’s fine.  He’s okay.  This is why he moved to Chicago in the first place.  He’s accepted here, he’s _dated_ people here.  Nothing else matters.

“So?” Pamela prompts.  “You gonna go talk to him or what?”

Cas looks over at her, surprised.  “Pamela, I –  who says he’s gay?”

“ _Please_ ,” Pamela drawls, shaking her head.  “If that article wasn’t enough confirmation, you know – I have great gaydar.  Now get a move on.  Sex that boy up.”

Cas takes a deep breath, and he wills his legs to move, but they don’t.  Instead, he gets pushed out from behind the counter by Pamela, who hisses at him and waves her hand, motioning for him to go ahead.  He closes eyes, taking one more deep breath for he crosses the café and approaches D.J. with gentleness.

“Excuse me?  I – I hate to bother you – “

D.J. turns, a little startled to find Cas standing there, but he smiles nonetheless.  “Oh, no – you won’t be.  What’s up?”

“Are – are you, by any chance, D.J. Smith?”

He laughs, shifting his weight.  “Um – yeah,” he says.  “Yeah, I am.”

Cas can’t help but laugh too.  “That’s – I just – I wanted to tell you that I really enjoy your work.”

“Thank you,” D.J. replies.  “That, uh – that means a lot.”  He pauses, staring at Cas with something like curiosity.  “Do you – you can take a seat if you want.”

Cas doesn’t move at first, not quite understanding what exactly D.J.’s just said.  “Oh,” he says after a moment, and he lowers himself to the booth.  “Yeah, I – sorry,” he mutters, shaking his head.

D.J. just chuckles.  “Don’t worry about being nervous, seriously,” he says.  “I don’t know anyone in this town, so it’s – it’s nice to meet people like you.  And I’m nothing special, really.  Believe me.”

Cas wants to say so many things, wants to tell D.J. how intelligent and amazing Cas thinks he is.  He wants to tell D.J. how his articles have made Cas feel just the slightest bit less alone, and that he finds solace in knowing that people like D.J. exist.

Ultimately, he laughs awkwardly and says, “I’ve been living here for six years, and I still don’t really know anybody.”

D.J. raises an eyebrow, lowering the cup of coffee currently at his lips.  “Really?  Don’t you get out much?”

“Not really,” Cas admits, and he bites his lip to keep from elaborating.

“I don’t either.  It’s okay,” D.J. says with a smirk, and Cas’ stomach does a flip-flop.  He lifts his coffee up, and then pauses once again.  “What’s your name, by the way?”

“Castiel,” he replies.

D.J.’s eyebrows shoot up a little.  “Kind of a mouthful,” he remarks.

Cas can’t help but smirk.  “Yeah,” he agrees.

“Mean anything?”

“It’s the name of the Angel of Thursday,” Cas says automatically, having explained it thousands of times.  “My – my parents had a bit of a fascination with theology.”  His throat feels a little tight as he gets the sentence out, but he recovers quickly, focusing his attention on D.J.

“It’s neat,” D.J. says.  “I like it.”

“Thank you,” Castiel says, and the blush crawls to his cheeks now.  “So, what does ‘D.J.’ stand for?”

“Dean John,” he replies, and a peculiar expression crosses his face.  “It’s – D.J. Smith is a pseudonym,” he explains.  “My real name’s Dean.  John – John is my father’s name.”  He coughs awkwardly, and the conversations heads into a silence.

“So – you’re new in town?” Cas ask, hoping to jump-start a new one.

“Yeah,” Dean says.  “I headed over from Madison, looking for a writing job.”

“You certainly found one, then, didn’t you?” Cas says with a chuckle.

“Yeah, it’s – it’s certainly been a whirlwind,” Dean says, and he takes a sip of his coffee.

Again, their conversation starts dwindling, and Cas sighs, pushing himself up.  “Well – I should probably get back to work.  It – it was nice meeting you . . . “ he trails off, unsure.”

“Dean,” he says firmly. 

“Dean,” Castiel repeats.  “It was nice meeting you, Dean.”

“You too, Castiel,” he says, flashing another smile.

Cas smiles back before walking away, heart about to jump straight out of his chest.  His head spins as he walks back to the counter, and Pamela waits for him, eyebrows raised and expression eager.  Cas’ cheeks feel hot as he hurries around to the other side.

“Well?” Pamela says, grinning.  “How’d it go?”

“We just talked,” Cas mumbles, but his smirk completely gives him away. 

Pamela pats him on the back, rolling her eyes as she says, “Sure, sure.  Get back to work, Castiel – and don’t let me see you flirting with any more customers, got it?”

He ducks his head, and heads back to the cash register, trying his best not to stare at Dean as he continues his work and Cas continues his shift.  Of course, he fails miserably.

.

.

As it turns out, Cas’ little fanboy moment is not in fact short-lived.  Though, by the time Dean shows up back at the café for the third time, most of the fanfare has worn off.  Now, Cas is well on his way to nursing a crush, and Dean has no idea what he’s doing to Cas.

He orders what seems to be his usual – a black coffee, and Cas hands it to him with a shy smile.  Dean replies with a cocky grin, and Cas just about melts to the floor.  Like he’s done previously, Dean retreats back to a booth along the windows that overlook the street.  He sets up a chunky, battered laptop and spreads out sheets of paper on the table beside him.

He’s working, writing what Cas knows is probably another article, and Cas wants so desperately to go over there and ask what he’s working on, ask what new opinion he’s going to throw at his readers this time around and if it’s going to keep up with his record of displaying views that are identical to Cas’.  Cas won’t do that, however.  He can’t – for three reasons.

One, he’s working, and though Pamela always pushes him to talk to Dean both in and outside of work, he knows that he can’t slack off for _too_ long.  It’s busy today anyway, and Cas needs to give out equal treatment to all of this customers.

Two, _Dean’s_ working.  Dean’s concentrating hard on whatever he’s writing, fingers flying across the keys as he types.  He’s got deadlines to meet and prompts to fill, and Cas won’t dare to bug him while he’s in the zone.  That would be rude, and would probably not be a good start to any kind of potential relationship.

Three, he’s scared.  Cas’ll admit it.  He’s never been good at relationships, and that shows by how thoroughly alone he is.  He’s terrified that Dean will either shoot him down right away, or worse – Dean will let him in and then things will end up horribly because Cas will no doubt do something stupid, and he – he just doesn’t even want to imagine that route.

So he sits back, admiring Dean from afar and half-hoping Dean will approach him, while also half-hoping Dean will stop frequenting this particular café for peaceful work.  He half-hopes Dean will find somewhere across town, find another barista to flirt with, another lonely soul who admires him and who will treat him loads better than Cas ever would.

And you know, Cas really should have expected this then.  He doesn’t ever get what he really wants, so why should this be any different.

It’s nearly time for close, and Dean’s still sitting in his seat, hair sticking up in all different angles, his jacket off and his shirt rumpled.  His papers are a mess, and five empty, plastic cups sit pushed together behind Dean’s laptop.

Cas cleans off every other table before he dares to approach Dean.

“Hey,” he says quietly.  “We’re closing up in about fifteen minutes, you know?”

Dean looks up, thoroughly confused as he glances around the room.

“God – what time is it?”

“Almost eight,” Cas replies.

“Shit,” Dean mutters, scrambling to grab his papers.  “I didn’t know it was that late – _fuck_.”

Cas watches him, eyebrows creasing with worry.  “Are you okay?” he asks.

“Yeah – yeah,” Dean says, though he sounds unconvincing.  “I just – I was supposed to – “  He breaks off, sighing heavily and deflating.  “I had a meeting with my editor at seven-thirty, and I – I’m sorry.”  He looks up at Cas with wide eyes, and Cas can’t help the resounding falter of his heart.

“For what?” he asks stupidly.

“For – for bothering you,” Dean replies, sitting up straight again. 

“You’re not bothering me,” Cas says, half-laughing.  “Is there – is there anything I can do to help?  Can I help you clean up?”

“Nah,” Dean says, shaking his head.  “I’ve got it.  It’s no problem.  Thank you for letting me stay here today.  I probably took away from some of your customers.”

Cas laughs again.  “Actually – I think a small word might have gotten out that you spend time writing here, because our traffic of college students has dramatically increased in the last few days.”

Dean raises an eyebrow, an odd expression overcoming his face.  “Well, I’m glad I could help in some way, I guess.”  He lets out a huge sigh, looking around the table.  “I should probably clean this up.” 

Cas turns away, grabbing the bucket full of soapy water and clenches the dishrag in his fist.  “I’ll be right back,” he tells Dean.  “I’m just going to take the garbage out back, alright?  My boss is in the kitchen cleaning up if you need anything.”

“I’ll be fine,” Dean says absently, and Cas steals one more glance at him before bringing the water and rag back to the counter.  He grabs today’s garbage bags from where they’re piled by the door, heaving them into his arms and heading out into the chilly night.

It’s relatively quiet, and it unnerves Cas a little as he heads into the side alley.  He smells the Dumpster before he reaches it, wrinkling up his nose as he walks forward to meet it.  With all his strength, he hauls the bags up over his shoulder and throws them into the Dumpster, wiping his hands on his apron as they crash inside.  Shivering a little, he turns, and that’s when he comes face to face with somebody in a dark hood.

“Hey, princess.”

He freezes, as the guy hobbles forward, obviously drunk.  Cas takes a nervous step backward, eyes scanning over the guys appearance.  His eyes are bloodshot, hair mangled, and his sleeves are rolled up, revealing needle marks that dust his skin.

Cas’ feels his throat begin to close up, and he wishes he could scream.  Right now is not the most opportune moment for this to happen.  He can’t close himself off when he’s about to be assaulted – he needs to get away.  But he can’t.  Instead he backs up against the side of the building, flashbacks coming so violently and quickly that he feels ill.  His back hits the bricks, and he can’t breathe.  His vision swims and he waits for the man to lay a hand on him, practically defenseless.

However, nothing happens. 

It’s quiet until a worried voice says, “Cas?  Cas, are you – _get away from him_.”  The voice sounds dangerous now.  “Get away!” 

There’s the sound of scuffling and then hurried footsteps.  Air wooshes as someone approaches Cas, a hand coming to Cas’ knee; he hadn’t even realized he’d lowered himself to the ground.  He tries desperately to look, to see the person crouched down beside him, but he can’t work past the intense fear that’s overcome him.  His head his swimming, his stomach churning, and he’s breathing way too fast to get any proper air.

“Cas, can you hear me?”

“Cas?”

“He’s here!”

“Is he okay?  What’s wrong?”

“No , he’s – “

“Oh my God, what happened?”

“Some guy , he – look, I don’t have time to explain.  Do you have a paper bag or something?  Cas is hyperventilating.”

“Yeah, I’ll be right back.”

Footsteps sound again, and Cas struggles to talk, struggles to let them know he’s okay.  It’s – it’s just a panic attack.  He’ll be over it soon, he knows.  He’s had them before.  They don’t need to be worrying themselves like this. 

Unfortunately, he can’t find the words, and a paper bag is placed over his mouth.  He breathes in and out, in and out, and slowly, his breathing regulates.  His vision focuses, and his head stops whirring.  He feels himself growing calmer, fading back to reality.  And that’s when he sees Dean – on his knees at Cas’ side, holding the paper bag uncertainly in front of Cas.

“You good?” he asks, as Cas regains control of his breathing.

“Yeah,” he says, still a little breathless.  Except he’s dizzy, so incredibly dizzy.  “I just – I think I might – “

And he leans to his left, throwing up all over the cement.  A hand comes up to rest on his shoulder as he empties his stomach and his body begins to tremble.  It’s over soon, thankfully, and he pushes himself back up.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters, closing his eyes and leaning his head back.  “I’m sorry – I just didn’t expect – “

“Hey,” Dean says gently.  “Hey, you’re fine – you’re good.  I’ve had the same thing happen to me – it’s okay.”

“You almost fainted at the sight of some drunk, homeless man?” Cas asks, raising a lazy eyebrow.

Dean smirks, but he isn’t fooled.  “No – I’ve had a panic attack.  I know – it’s scary.”

Cas shrugs.  “I’ve gotten used to them.”

“Still, don’t worry about it, okay?”  Dean says, standing up.  “Don’t worry about being embarrassed about it or anything, I mean.  It’s totally cool.” 

He offers a hand, and reluctantly, Cas takes it, pulling himself up onto unsteady feet.  Luckily, Dean catches him, and for a moment, Cas worries he might be sick again.  However, it’s just butterflies – nerves dancing around in his stomach.  Dean leads him back into the café, helping him to one of the empty tables.

Cas lays his head down in his arms as Dean grabs his things from his own table.  He doesn’t feel embarrassed – at least not yet.  He’s too preoccupied with the fact that Dean’s had a panic attack himself, and again – it’s that parallelism between them, all those little secrets Cas is left to uncover.

“Hey – “

Cas looks up as Dean walks up to him one more time. 

“You don’t have to tell me what triggered it, but I’d like to talk to you sometime, alright, Cas?”

Cas blinks, brain still hazy.  He thinks he knows what Dean is saying, but he doesn’t want to get his hopes up, so he says nothing – just nods, and hopes desperately that the lightheaded feeling he has is from the after effects of the panic attack.

“I’ll see you around,” Dean says with a small nod, and Cas nods back.

He stares for a long, long moment after Dean.  He’s still so confused, so shaken from what just happened, but Dean’s there in the back of his mind, a small little beacon of hope and promise, and Cas fully counts on him to keep up on that offer of talking.


	5. Chapter 5

Half-asleep, eyes squinting against the early-morning light, Dean reaches blindly for the bottle of pills.  He unscrews the cap after the third try and holds his palm open, turning it over – however, nothing pours into his hand.  He wakes up just a little more, giving the bottle a shake and peering inside when nothing comes out.  He groans when he sees that _yep, it’s empty_ , and then tosses it aside.

Dean sags forward in the backseat, running his hands through his hair.  In all honesty, these painkillers aren’t really doing it for him anymore.  He feels too sober most of the time, longs to get lost in the haze that never comes.  He needs something stronger, needs something that will drive all thoughts away from his mind.  Too many of them have been darker recently, and he hasn’t got that time nor the strength to deal with them. 

Besides, he thinks he writes better when he’s high anyway.

Begrudgingly, Dean pulls himself upward, feeling around the seat for his sweatshirt.  When he locates it, he pulls it over his head with a fair amount of difficulty.  His leather jacket is draped over the front seat, and he grabs it as he gets out of the car.  The chill of the early hour shocks him awake, and Dean blinks against the sudden watering of his eyes.

As Dean walks around, stretching his legs, he thinks about his plans for the day.  He’ll probably stop at the drugstore before he does anything, and he has that meeting with Chuck over lunch.  He really can’t miss that, because well – he missed the last one because he was too busy flirting with that barista to even notice the hours flying by.

Dean smirks as he thinks of him – Cas.  Castiel.  It’s a really pretty name, honestly, and God, what a pretty face he has to go with it.  Dean swears he can see the shocking color of his eyes all the way across the café.  They remind Dean of the ocean – what very little he saw of it when he was young, when his parents took him on vacation right before Sam was born.  It was a gift from John’s mother and step-father, a congratulations on the new baby, and it’s probably one of the happiest memories Dean has without Sam.

Dean swallows hard, reaching up a hand to grip tightly to his hair. 

He has stop doing this to himself.  He can’t let Sam sneak up on him like that, or his parents.  He has to _forget_ , has to push them so far out of his mind he never risks anything like this ever again.  It’s the only way he’ll get over it, the only way he can stop feeling so shitty.  If he just stopped thinking about them, if he could wash them from his mind –

Dean turns on his heel, heading back to his car.  He needs pills, and he needs them now.

.

.

Blissfully unaware and finally relaxed, Dean wanders around the streets again, and of course, his feet gravitate towards the Moonlit Café.  It’s a nice place, Dean admits, but he knows there’s something else drawing him here.  Or – someone.

It’s Cas, of course.

Dean doesn’t know why he feels such a connection with the guy, but it’s been driving him crazy ever since the first day he stepped into the café.  There’s something so inviting and comforting about Cas.  He’s so shy and sincere, so ridiculously adorable, and Dean honestly cannot get enough of his company.  He thinks he could spend hours upon hours with Cas, just doing nothing, and it would feel like Heaven.

Today, the café is a bit dead, and Dean supposes it’s the gloomy weather.  It’s moving onto freezing, and there’s a forecast of rain later on today.  Most people are probably at home, except, thankfully, Cas.  He’s right behind the counter as usual, and his face visibly brightens when Dean walks through the door.  Dean’s feeling a little more sober now, but it he doesn’t mind as much.

“The usual?” Cas asks as Dean steps up to the counter.

Dean smiles, not entirely aware he had a “usual”, but something warms inside him to find out that Cas already knows it.  “Yeah,” he says, pulling his wallet from his jacket and taking out a five-dollar bill.

“A black coffee,” Cas calls back, ringing up Dean’s order.  “Are you planning to switch anything up today?  Or will that be all?”

“That’ll be all,” Dean answers.  “For now.”

He hands Cas the cash and accepts his change.

“So,” Cas says, leaning forward.  “I read your last article – of course – and I have to say, once again, I really, really enjoyed it.  Your points on how damaging the male gender stereotype can be were incredible and just – dead-on.  And you didn’t exclude or diminish feminism – I mean you related both, and it was very well-done, Dean.  Astounding.”

Dean feels a blush settle in his cheeks, and he rubs at the back of his neck.  “Thanks, Cas.  I was actually really nervous about publishing that one,” he admits.  “It’s probably one of the pieces I’ve worked the most on, and positive feedback is great.”

Cas hands him his coffee, still grinning widely.  “Don’t ever doubt yourself.  I was very impressed.”

“Well again – thank you, Cas,” he says, holding his cup up in a gesture of appreciation. 

“No problem.”

Dean hesitates, but someone’s just entered the café behind him, and he doesn’t want to stand awkwardly in the way.  “I’m – I’m gonna go find a seat, but feel free to come over whenever you have time?”

Cas nods.  “I will,” he promises. 

Dean turns away, sipping on his coffee.  Silently, he thanks Chuck for pushing him so hard to find somewhere other than that awful, stuffy cubicle to work. 

.

.

When Dean shows up at the café once again, Cas’ initial reaction is anxiety.  He’s been afraid that after his panic attack, something might have changed between them.  However, even if something has, it hasn’t been negative, because he feels just the same – just as infatuated with Dean as ever, and Dean is still warm and welcoming. 

Cas has a break around three, and he sneaks over to where Dean is sitting, laptop open, but not in use.  He’s reading, and Cas sneaks a peek, seeing that it’s _Slaughterhouse Five_.  Cas feels a little thrill go through him, and God, he’s just consistently impressed by Dean’s intelligence.

“Great book,” he remarks, sliding in the seat across from Dean.

He looks up, smirking.  “I know,” he says.  “This is probably the fifth time I’ve read it.”

Cas raises an eyebrow.  “Really?  You a fan of Vonnegut then?”

“Huge fan, actually,” Dean replies, taking a sip of coffee.  “You like him?”

“Love him,” Cas replies.  “Though I think Fitzgerald tops my list.”

Dean nods, smile growing.  “He’s great too.  Most people love _Gatsby_ or _Benjamin Button_ , but I have to say my favorite work of his was _The Love of the Last Tycoon_.  A shame it was never finished.”

Cas could kiss Dean right now.  Honestly, he could.  His cleverness is the sexiest thing Cas has ever seen, and it just never ceases.  Cas feels giddy, like a lovesick middle schooler, and you know it really doesn’t help that Cas had a semi-celebrity crush on Dean before they met.  He’s heard that your opinions change when you meet someone who’s (relatively) famous, and usually it’s bad.  However, it isn’t the case with Cas and Dean.  If anything, Cas just adores him more.

“Cas?”

He gives himself a shake, blushing.  “Sorry, what – what were you saying?”

Dean hangs his head, laughing to himself.

“What?” Cas asks, starting to feel slightly panicked.  Oh, God – what had he missed?  Had he said something _out loud?_

Dean rubs the back of his neck, refusing to look at Cas, it seems.  “I – um – I wanted to ask you something.”

Cas blinks, uncertain.  “Yes, Dean?”

He coughs, clearing his throat.  “I was just wondering if maybe – if maybe you’d be interested in going out sometime?”

“Oh,” Cas says, suddenly feeling breathless.  He swallows hard.  “Like – like on a date?”

“Yeah,” Dean says, and carefully, he glances at Cas, and oh – the blush that dusts his cheeks is so obvious, and so, _so_ adorable.

“I’d love to,” Cas says, feeling lightheaded.

“Great,” Dean replies, and the smile that breaks across his face is so bright Cas is worried he might go blind just looking at it.

He smiles in return, though it takes him about another minute to realize what’s just happened.  He can hardly breathe, and he feels dangerously faint.  He’s going on a date.  With Dean.  A week ago, Cas didn’t even think he’d ever meet Dean, but fuck –

Castiel Milton is going on a date with Dean Winchester. 

In the excitement of it all, they don’t actually plan out what they’re doing until right before Dean leaves the café for the night.  Then Dean brings up the idea of having a nice dinner – he’ll pay, he promises, after Castiel tells of him his current financial problems.  (Again, he could kiss Dean right then and there).  Secretly, Cas hopes – and maybe Dean does too – that the night will end with them going back to either of their places, but they don’t add that to the agenda just yet.

As Dean packs up his things, he tells Cas that he’ll pick him up at six-thirty this Friday, and Cas quickly scribbles down his address on the edge of Dean’s notes.  As Dean heads out, Cas watches him go, still feeling incredibly dizzy.  He’s starting to get worried the feeling won’t ever pass, but then again – it’s been a long time since he’s felt so giddy, so he’ll gladly take it.

Slowly, Cas makes his way back to the counter, grinning like an idiot to myself.

“Alright, spill.”

Cas looks around, finding Pamela standing there with her arms crossed, looking smug.  “Spill what?”

“Don’t play dumb,” Pamela replies.  “What’s going on with you two?”

Cas sighs heavily, rolling his eyes, but the smirk on his face gives him away.  “Dean asked me out,” he says quietly, and Pamela lets out a loud laugh, clapping her hands together.

“Ah – finally.  My God, I didn’t think either of you would grow a pair.”

“Are we really that obvious?” Cas asks, looking at her sheepishly.

“Honey, someone would have to be blind to not see the way the two of you are falling all over each other like a couple ‘o hormonal, crazy-ass, teenagers.”

Cas lets his head drop, grinning to himself.  He should probably feel a lot more embarrassed, but he’s too excited over the fact that at least someone already thinks he and Dean make a good couple.  Maybe he’s jinxing it, maybe he shouldn’t let this relationship be forming so fast and so easily, but Dean makes him happy, and right now, Cas feels like he deserves to be happy.

.

.

Before the date, Cas is wrought with anxiety.  He’s almost ready – just has to tie his tie and slip on his black suit jacket, and he should be good.  When his tie is snug against his neck, and his jacket is hanging over his thin frame, he lets himself take a long look in the mirror. 

He looks better, he thinks.  He’s been making sure to take his medication, has been trying to at least eat two meals a day.  Sometimes he only gets one in, but sometimes he feels well enough to eat three, maybe four on a really good day.  He’s kept up on his hygiene, but that’s the easiest out of all of them, because he hates feeling dirty.  Only on days that are so bad he doesn’t even have the strength to get out of bed does he skip out on his routine. 

He’s been making an effort, though, he really has, and it shows.  The bags under his eyes are disappearing.  He’s got color in his cheeks, and he’s put on a few pounds at least.  He still doesn’t look entirely healthy, but it’s a start, and Cas does feel a little pleased with himself.  It’s been hard, so much more difficult than Cas ever imagined, but he’s been pulling through and now look at himself – all dressed up for a date. 

A month ago, he wouldn’t dare to engage in social interaction if he didn’t need to, but now he’s really putting himself out there.  He got a job that requires himself to present himself to the public and engage with customers.  He went out of his way to introduce himself to Dean and form a friendship with him, and now – maybe more?

It’s been far too long that Castiel’s gone without any sense of self-worth, and it’s nice to feel even just the smallest amount for a change.

However, on the other hand, he’s waiting for the inevitable downfall.

There’s a reason Cas hasn’t dated in years.  Hell, he can’t even remember the last date he went on.  There’s a reason Cas doesn’t have any friends, and a reason he no longer keeps in contact with his family, and sooner or later, Dean will join the same ranks.

Cas is not a good person, not in the slightest.  He knows once he lets Dean in, it’s only a matter of time before he turns and pushes him away – and he’ll do anything to make it happen.  He’ll hurt Dean in ways he’ll know will stick with him.  He’ll push his buttons and get under his skin until Dean can’t take it any longer.  Cas will tear him apart and not even think twice about it.

Music crackles in from the radio in Cas’ kitchen, and he sighs, tearing himself away from the mirror.  He might be getting better, but looking at his reflection for too long still makes him nauseous.  Cas swallows hard as he slides onto one of the stools set up along the bar.  He leans over the counter, resting his head in his arms.  He closes his eyes, listening to the music in an attempt to calm himself.

Two songs later, there’s a knock at the door, and Cas is jumping out of his seat and heading to answer it.  He takes three long deep breaths before he opens the door, and – wow.  Dean stands there, and apparently he cleans up nicely.  He’s wearing a suit without a tie, the jacket hanging open and the top button on his shirt undone.  Cas swallows hard again, but for a  completely different reason.

“You – you look nice,” Dean says, rubbing the back of his neck.

“You too,” Cas replies, voice quiet.

They stare at each other a moment longer before Dean gives himself a shake and says, “Well, anyway – we should get going.”  He offers a hand, and it takes Cas a second to recognize the gesture.  He slides his hand into Dean’s with a blush, smiling shyly.

Returning his smile, Dean leads Cas out of his apartment and down to his car.

.

.

Dean ends up taking him to a gourmet pizza place – which also does serve incredible pasta, Cas’ heard.  Someone else may have been disappointed by Dean’s taste, but Castiel finds it endearing.  He’s also glad Dean isn’t trying to impress him so much that he hides who he is.  He’s being honest and true to himself, and as always, he continues to reel Cas in.

They’re seated in a booth by the window, overlooking the street.  The light is dim overhead, and the streetlamps and shop windows sparkle alongside it.  This place is cozy, and Cas is pleased with how comfortable he’s feeling already.

The waiter comes as soon as they’ve sat down, offering them menus.  They order their drinks, and decide on a simple, pepperoni pizza and parmesan bread.  The waiter promises to get them their drinks and that the food will be on its way as soon as possible.  Once he’s left, Dean turns to Cas, folding his hands together.

“So, Cas,” he starts, “I think this is the point in a date where we get to know one another.  You know a bit about me, so what about you?”

Cas shrugs.  “What do you want to know?”

Dean drums his finger on the table, thinking.  “The café,” he says, “why are you working at a place like that?  Are you in school at all?”

“I’m not in school, no,” Cas says, shaking his head.  “I got the job at the café because it was the first I could find.  I was desperate for a job a month ago, and Pamela offered me a place on the spot, so I took it.”

“Fair enough,” Dean says.

He leans back in his chair as the waiter returns.  “Alright, I’ve got your drinks.  The food’s on its way.”

“Thank you,” Cas says, and Dean echoes.

The waiter leaves with a nod and a smile, and Cas grabs his drink immediately, taking a sip.  He hopes the action will calm his nerves a little, giving his hands something to do.  When he lowers his drink, he keeps his hand wrapped around the bottom of it.

“Why didn’t you have a job before?” Dean asks, sounding genuinely curious.

“Medical complications,” Cas says dismissively, and he hopes Dean catches the hint.  He’s bordering on something way too personal for Cas to talk about, and Cas would appreciate him backing off the subject, rather than pressing more.

Fortunately, he seems to understand, and he turns to something else on his mind.  “You ever go to school?” he asks.  “College, I mean.”

Cas shakes his head.  “No, I – I couldn’t afford it.”

“I didn’t go either,” Dean says.  “Just wasn’t my thing.”

Cas nods, taking another sip from his soda.  “Completely understandable.”

“Did you ever have any idea what you wanted to do?” Dean asks.  “Career-wise, I mean.”

“Yeah,” Cas says.  “I always wanted to be a photographer.”

“That’s a great choice,” Dean remarks, and for a moment, it’s quiet until Dean asks, “Cas?” and his tone of voice has changed.  He sounds uncertain, apprehensive even.  “If I ask you something, will you answer honestly?”

Cas blinks at him, a little unsure.  “Most likely.”

“Were you really a fan of my stuff before you met me?”

Cas laughs slightly; he can’t help it.  “Dean, how else do you think I knew who you were?  I really did enjoy your articles.  Your style, the opinions you expressed – everything was wonderful.  And then I heard that interview you had with Kasey, and I couldn’t get your voice out of my head.  That’s how I recognized you.”

Dean smiles shyly, staring down at the table.  “Yeah, that makes sense,” he says quietly.  There’s a pause, and then he says, “I – I really do appreciate your support, Cas.  I was just curious.”

“I don’t blame you,” Cas replies.  “But I’m not lying.  Meeting you and finding out you also have exceptionally good looks was simply an added bonus.”

Dean chuckles, shaking his head.  “You’re pretty good-lookin yourself, Cas.”

Cas blushes, biting his lip.

They continue talking for awhile, keeping things basic, staying away from anything that Cas would consider “too personal,” and he’s so incredibly thankful for that.  He likes Dean, he really does, but there are just some things he doesn’t feel comfortable sharing – he can’t even admit some of these things to himself.  He has no idea how he could tell Dean.  Not to mention the anxiety that would arise with Dean’s reaction.  No, Cas would rather just keep things to himself.

Their food comes within twenty minutes, and then they’re forced to stop talking as they eat.  The pizza is delicious, and Cas isn’t even sure this can technically call this pizza.  It seems to have been given an insane amount of care and is simply way too extravagant.

When they’re done at the restaurant, Dean ushers Cas back into his car, claiming that he a has a surprise for him.  Curious and eager, Cas slides into the passenger seat once more.  Dean pulls away from the curb and heads back onto the street.  Buildings pass by, streets trail behind them, and the further they go, the more nervous Cas becomes – in a good way.

“Dean?” he prods.  “Where are we going?”

Dean just smiles, keeping his eyes on the road.  “You’ll see.”

The urban world dwindles outside the window, and they’re in suburbs.  The dirty sidewalks and alleys become grass and clusters of trees.  The tall, towering buildings become two-story townhomes.  Streetlights become less condensed, and Cas feels his stomach fill with butterflies.   Dean veers off onto one of the side streets, and the city skyline behind them begins to disappear.

“You ever lived outside of Chicago, Cas?” Dean asks suddenly.

“Years ago,” he replies.  “I lived in Pontiac.  I haven’t been outside the city since I was twenty.”

“And you’re how old now?”

“Twenty-six.”

“Hmmm,” Dean hums.  “A year younger than me.  I’m a cradle robber.”

Cas laughs, and something twists in his heart as he realizes for the first time how light he feels – rather than weighed down, which he feels most of the time.

“Alright,” Dean mutters, seemingly to himself, as he rounds a corner and pulls the car to stop.  “Come on.”  He jumps out of the car excitedly, and Cas hurries to follow after him.

Once outside, Cas looks around and sees that they’re somewhere on the edge of Lake Michigan.  The water is stretched out in front of them, sparkling with moonlight.  The night is quiet, just the gentle slosh of water filling their ears.  There’s a slight chill to the air, and Cas wraps his coat tighter around himself.

“Look up,” Dean says quietly, and Cas obeys.

Above them, the night sky is alive.  Contrary to the usual light-polluted gradient of brown, this sky is black, dotted with bright, dancing stars.  The last time Cas saw stars like that he was sixteen, and life was much simpler. 

A small thump comes from behind and Cas and he looks to find Dean situating himself on the hood of his Impala.  Carefully, Cas joins him.  He shimmies up close to Dean, and almost automatically, Dean wraps an arm around Cas’ shoulders, pulling him closer.

They sit in silence for a long while, and somehow, they end up lying down on the hood, curled up against one another.  As the night grows colder, they keep huddled close, and for once, both of them feel at peace.  

“You know,” Dean whispers after awhile, “I used to watch the stars all the time.  Me and my brother.  When things were shitty at home, I’d take him out with me and we’d just sit on the edge of some cornfield and watch the stars.”

“I used to do the same with my sister,” Cas replies.

They fall back into silence, hearts heavy.  Neither of them have any clue how monumental this small confessions were for the other, but Cas – Cas can sense something’s wrong by the way Dean stiffens around him.  He looks up tentatively to see that Dean’s expression is vaguely pained.

“Dean?” he asks, and he pushes himself upward.

It takes a second for Dean to understand that Cas is addressing him, and he hesitates before looking at Cas, looking almost confused.

“Cas – “

But he’s cut off.  He’s cut off because Cas doesn’t like the way he looks so hurt, but he doesn’t know how to help Dean, doesn’t know what to say because he doesn’t even know what’s wrong.  And he panics.  He just wants to get rid of that horrible look on Dean’s face, so he leans forward.  He grips Dean’s face gently in his hands, and he kisses him hard.

Dean’s startled, but it doesn’t even take a second before he’s kissing back, one hand moving and sliding into Cas’ hair.  He uses his free hand to push himself up, shifting so that he’s straddling Cas.  At the same time, Cas lets go of his face and moves his hands slowly down Dean’s chest.

They move in sync, desperate, but content.  As they do, Cas feels like a heavy burden is being lifted, if only for a moment.  Dean’s lips press against his own, trail down his neck, suck at his collarbone, and they pull him from darkness.  His heart is pounding fiercely against his ribcage, and he feels positively _giddy_.

Soon enough, Dean has got Cas’ entire shirt open, and a blast of cold air makes goosebumps rise along his skin.  Dean’s hands are hovering dangerously around Cas’ cock, and then Dean’s palming him, and Cas’ hips are bucking up.  And fuck – he wants Dean, wants him so bad.

“Dean,” he manages to croak out.  “Dean – the car.”

“Wa’about it?” Dean  asks, toying with Cas’ belt.

“The backseat,” Cas breathes.  “Let’s go.”

Dean hesitates, but Cas is already slipping out from underneath him.  He grabs Dean’s hand and leads him around the side of the car, and then opening the door.  He pushes Dean inside before following and getting himself situated on top of him.

He unbuttons Dean’s shirt quickly, pulling it open and kissing down Dean’s neck, moving to his chest.  He sucks at Dean’s collarbone before moving even further, kissing down the center of Dean’s abdomen, making sure his kisses become lighter and lighter.  Dean squirms underneath him, grunting. 

Cas moves slower now, taking his time to undo Dean’s belt and the button and zipper of his pants.  Carefully, he pushes Dean’s pants down and then hitches his finger underneath the waistband of Dean’s boxers. 

“Cas,” Dean pants.  “Cas, please.”

Cas smirks before he slides his hand into Dean’s underwear, wrapping his hand around Dean’s cock.  Dean’s hips buck involuntarily, and Cas presses his own hips hard against Dean’s in response.  As he begins to stroke Dean, Cas leans down again, kissing Dean’s neck, his jaw, and back towards his lips.

Cas continues to stroke Dean, and the longer he goes, the more responsive Dean becomes, before he’s practically fucking Cas’ hand.

“God,” he hisses.  “Cas, I’m gonna – I’m – “

Taking that as his cue, Cas stops, releasing his grip on Dean.  “Oh no, you’re not,” he mutters.

Hurriedly, Cas undoes his belt and shoves both his pants and his underwear down to his ankles.  Slowly again, he situates himself in Dean’s lap, pressing his own cock against Dean’s.  In response, Dean reaches up and bites the fabric of his sleeve tightly between his teeth.

Cas’ hand moves down again, and this time he takes both cocks in his grip and begins to pump.  Evidently, that’s not enough for Dean, because he continues to thrust, desperate for Cas’ touch.  Taking the hint and more than a little smug, Cas lets go and begins to grind their hips together.

“God – you can go harder, Cas,” Dean hisses.  “Please – for Christ’s sake.”

Cas almost laughs, but it comes out as something much more breathy.  He obliges, thrusting against Dean a little harder, a little faster.  He can feel his orgasm coiling inside of him, and he closes his eyes, focusing on the motions.  He feels Dean’s hands slide up his hips, gripping them hard, and he knows he’ll have bruises in the morning.  In less than a minute, Dean’s coming, spilling all over himself and Cas.  It’s his moan that does it for Cas, and then he’s following right after.  They’re quiet for a moment, breathing hard as they come down from the high.

And then they’re both smiling, grinning like complete idiots.  Cas leans down one last time to kiss Dean lazily.  He knows they need to clean up at least a little, but Dean tastes too good right now, and he’s too tired to care about anything else.

Dean’s the one to come to his senses first, and he pushes Cas off of him.

“It’s getting late,” he points out.  “And we really need to clean this mess up.”

Cas smiles, an idea stemming in his brain.  “Alright – but I have a proposition for you.”

Dean raises an eyebrow, smirking.  “Really?” he asks.

“How about . . . we go back to my place, we shower, and maybe while we’re in there or when we get out – we go for round two?”

Dean laughs, propping himself up on his elbows.  “Sounds like a plan to me.  Let’s get going.”


	6. Chapter 6

Cas is the first to wake up.  His sleeping schedule has been fucked ever since he stayed in the hospital, continuously inconsistent.  He’s not sure what the time is exactly when he opens his eyes, but it’s early, much earlier than he’d like.

However, any irritation falls away the second he realizes someone’s in the bed with him, snuggled up against his side.  He smiles as memories of the night before come rushing back – from Dean picking him for dinner, all the way to blowjobs in the bathroom.  Cas heaves a sigh as he looks down at Dean, feeling how their naked legs are tangled together, a little slick with sweat.

His smile grows as he looks down at Dean, so vulnerable in his sleep.  He remembers the pained look Dean had before Cas kissed him, and now – he looks peaceful, happy.  And it makes Cas’ heart swell to know that he might be the reason.

Cas turns his head, squinting against the pale sunlight leaking in through the shades hanging in front of the window.  After a large yawn, Cas begins to work himself out of Dean’s grip.  He’s careful, gentle, not wanting to wake Dean.  Just as his feet hit the floor, Dean lets out a sigh and turns onto his other side.  Cas freezes, but after a minute, it’s clear that Dean’s still asleep, and Cas dares to move again.

After throwing on a fresh pair of boxers and some sweatpants, he heads out to the kitchen and begins brewing a pot of coffee.  He doesn’t usually make coffee – especially on the days that he works, because he knows Pamela will let him have a cup for free.  But Dean’s asleep in his bed, and he doesn’t have to work today, and he just wants a little domesticity before Dean has to leave.

As the coffee brews, Castiel turns the radio up, letting the music come softly through.  He isn’t sure how much food he has presently – he hasn’t gone grocery shopping in a little over a week – but he manages to scrounge up a few eggs and some bread for toast. 

By the time Cas is finished with breakfast, Dean still isn’t awake.  Cas shuffles back to his room and peaks his head inside the room.  A groan comes from the bed as Cas creaks the door open, and he smiles, stepping forward.  Dean rolls onto his back up, rubbing at his eyes, and Cas crawls back into the bed.

“Good morning, Dean,” he murmurs, leaning his head down and pressing a kiss to Dean’s temple.

“Are we going for round three?” Dean asks, and Cas lets out a breathy laugh.

“I was aiming more for breakfast,” Cas says.  “I hope you like scrambled eggs.”

Dean perks up, looking at Cas curiously.  “You cooked for me?” he asks, sounding surprised.

“Yes,” Cas replies.  “You’re in my apartment and it’s morning – why wouldn’t I cook you breakfast?”

Dean shrugs, sitting up and running a hand through his bedhead.  “That’s just really sweet, Cas.  Thank you.”

“It’s not a problem,” Cas replies, hopping down from his bed.  He grabs another pair of his own clean boxers and chucks them at Dean.  “Now, come on – before the food gets cold.”

Out in the kitchen, Dean slides onto one of the stools as Cas dumps food onto his plate.  He thanks Cas again, and smiles fondly when Cas hands him a black cup of coffee.

“You’ve really got my order down, haven’t you?”

Cas rolls his eyes.  “It’s a black coffee.  Nothing hard to remember.”

They eat in silence until Dean notices the radio playing.  He lets out a small groan, shaking his head.

“Cas, I think we’ve finally hit an incompatibility here.”

He looks over at Dean, confused.

“Don’t tell me you like indie music,” Dean mutters, looking at Cas with the most disappointed look he can muster.

Cas shrugs, smiling sheepishly to himself.  “I’m not generally in tune with most modern music, but I’ve found I do like what they play on this station.”

Dean sighs.  “Classic rock is where it’s at.”

“Well, I apologize,” Cas says teasingly.  “I grew up listening to Elvis and The Beatles.  My parents never grew a taste for classic rock.”

“Hey, wait – I can get behind the Beatles.  My mom loved them.  Used to sing me ‘Hey Jude’ instead of traditional lullabies.”

“Really?” Cas asks.  “’Hey Jude’ was my sister’s favorite song through her entire high school career.”

The two of them fall into silence again, plagued by the sudden rush of thoughts they try to desperately push back.  Now isn’t the best time for a breakdown, not when they’re trying their best to be happy with one another.

They don’t bother to do dishes after breakfast; Cas insists he doesn’t mind doing them later.  Instead, they cuddle on the couch and watch the morning news.  They don’t need much to keep them occupied, just being with each other is enough.

As they sit, wrapped around each other, Cas feels something nagging at him.  He realizes that yes, eventually, Dean will have to back to his own home.  He’ll have to go back to work at the newspaper, and Cas will have to go back to work at the café.  Maybe they’ll still see each other there, but Cas needs to know, needs a promise that they’ll continue this.  He doesn’t want this to be a one time thing.

“Dean?” he asks quietly.

“Hmm?”

“I have a question,” Cas says.  “A serious question.”

“Yes?”

“What are we?” Cas asks.  “What does last night, and this morning – what does it mean for us?”

Dean looks down at him, eyebrows knit together slightly.  “What do you want it to mean?”

Cas hesitates, but his voice is firm when he says, “I want it to mean we’re together.”

Dean smiles unabashedly.  “I was thinking the same thing,” he says, and he leans down to press a swift kiss to Cas’ lips.

Cas is still worried about the inevitable breakup, but Dean’s lips are warm and soft against his own, his hands roaming down Cas’ hips, and Cas decides that at this moment, he doesn’t really care.  Dean’s his own for now, and that’s all that matters.

.

.

They don’t flaunt their relationship, per se.  They just don’t make any effort to hide it.  And you know, it’s really very easy to gush about one another when the two of them have people pressing them for information every day.

For Cas, it’s Pamela.  The moment Cas walks into to work on Sunday morning, she’s right on top of him, asking him how the date went, what they did, if they kissed, when and where the marriage ceremony will take place.

“We’ve been on _one_ date, Pamela,” Cas says with a sigh.  “Don’t get your hopes up.”

“Which you’re still not telling me about,” Pamela says, handing off his apron.

“It was fine,” Cas says, shrugging as he takes it.  “We went out to dinner, and afterward we watched the stars for awhile.”

“You’re joking right?” Pamela says, deadpanning.  “You’re fucking joking.”

“What?’ Cas asks, pausing as he throws the apron on himself. 

“You _watched the stars_?  Cas, that is honestly the cheesiest and possibly the gayest thing I have ever heard.”

“Don’t look at me.  It was Dean’s idea,” Cas says, but the smirk on his face contradicts the defensive tone of his voice.  He enjoyed watching the stars as much as Dean did, maybe more.  It was incredibly cheesy, but it was also very romantic in Cas’ eyes – which is something he hasn’t experienced in a long, long time.

Pamela laughs, shaking her head.  “Please tell me you at least went home together.”

Cas presses his lips together, fighting off a smile and feeling his cheeks go hot.  Pamela raises an eyebrow, jaw falling open as she turns to face Cas. 

“ _Cas_ ,” she says, scandalized as she smacks his arm.

“What?” he asks, not daring to look at her.

“On the first date?”

Cas holds back a laugh, trying and failing not to smile.  “Why not?  We both wanted it – why wait, right?”

Pamela shakes her head again, letting out a sigh.  “I’m only giving you a hard time, kid.  Congratulations on nailing the guy.”

“I didn’t just nail him,” Cas says quietly, putting air quotes around ‘nail him.’  “We’re in a romantic relationship now, Pamela.  We’re boyfriends.” 

The word feels weird in his mouth, but at the same time – so, so gratifying to say.             

“Yeah, yeah – whatever you say, Romeo,” Pamela mutters.  “Just don’t let your _boyfriend_ distract you too much when he comes in here.  You still have a job to do.”

Cas rolls his eyes, stepping up to the cash registers comes in.  “I know, I know.”

(He’s totally going to let his boyfriend distract him at work).

.

.

For Dean, the inquiries come from his work as well, but not from his boss.  He’s back at the office after weeks of staying away and sending in his articles through e-mail.  As he makes his way into his cubicle, Garth looks up, smile breaking across his face when he sees Dean.

“Dean, man – where have you been?” he asks, hopping out of his chair.

“I, uh – I found a new place to write – this café on thirty-second street,” Dean replies.

Before Dean’s even sat down at his desk, Garth is smirking.  “Alright – how good was she?”

Dean lifts his head, glancing at Garth – who’s now peaking over the divider that separates their workspaces.  He narrows his eyes, thoroughly confused as to what exactly Garth as asking.

“What are you talking about?”

“The girl,” Garth explains, and still – Dean’s not following.  “It’s obvious you got laid last night.”

At that, Dean smiles.  _Now_ it makes sense.

“You’ve got the wrong gender, my friend,” Dean replies.

“Oh,” Garth says quickly, and he blushes.  “I’m sorry – I didn’t mean – “

Dean holds up a hand, stopping him.  “Don’t even worry about it.  And he was _great_ – thanks for asking.”

“Where’d you two meet?” Garth asks.  “Just like at the bar, or - ?”

Dean laughs awkwardly, looking down.  “Actually, we met at the café I mentioned.  That’s kind of why I’ve been staying away.”

Garth smirks, nodding.  “I got ya, I got ya.”

“Yeah, it took awhile, but I finally asked him out the other day, and last night was our first date.”  Dean shifts around the papers on his desk, still not meeting Garth’s eyes.  Memories are swirling around in his mind, and he tries to get them under control.  Developing fantasies off of what happened last night is probably not the smartest thing to be doing at work.

“And it went well, then,” Garth says, giving Dean a knowing look.

“It went very well,” Dean agrees.  “I won’t go into detail, but yeah – an excellent night overall.”

“You plan on seeing him again?” Garth asks.

Dean nods.  “I’m not really sure when, exactly, but we decided to be together, so I assume there’ll be more dates in our future.”

“Well,” Garth says.  “That’s really exciting, man.  Congratulations, and good luck.”

“Thanks, Garth,” Dean says fondly.

“No problem,” Garth says, stepping away from the divider.  He hesitates, then leans forward.  “If the occasion ever comes up, you gotta let me meet him.”

Dean chuckles, nodding again.  “Of course, Garth.  If he ever visits me here, I’ll make sure to introduce you two.”

“Awesome.  I’m holding you to that.”

Dean rolls his eyes.  “I would expect nothing less, now get back to work, Fitzgerald.”

Garth turns, settling back down inside his cubicle.  Dean turns back to his work, starting up his laptop.  He was going to go through his replies, but after having this conversation, Dean’s sure he already knows what he wants to write about.

.

.

LOVE, MARRIAGE, AND OTHER MYTHS  
by D.J. Smith

_As the responses continue to trickle in, I’ve had more than a number of people ask me – D.J., do  you believe in love?  What about love at first sight?  Marriage?  So let’s make it clear right away that of course I believe in love.  Just because it’s always been something difficult for me to come by doesn’t mean I don’t believe in it.  I’m not that selfish._

_Which leads me to my own question: what kind of love?  I’ll answer it myself by saying that I do believe in all kinds – familial love, platonic love, romantic love, and of course the best – physical love.  (I’m only joking).  Consistently throughout my life, familial love has been the most important, but that’s not to say I think any other kind of love is second-rate.  Familial love is simply the most I’ve experienced, and I think for someone my own age, that’s perfectly acceptable, as well as expected.  I’m young.  I’ve still got the rest of my life to experience platonic, romantic, and physical love._

_As a side note - you know, I think it’s very interesting how different forms of love can change and overlap.  How platonic love can become familial love, how platonic love can also become romantic love – or how each of these instances can overlap._

_Throughout childhood and onto the beginnings of adulthood, most people only know true, familial love – and maybe platonic love.  It depends on how close you are to those you call friends.  I believe it truly is possible to find your other half in a friend, a platonic soulmate so to speak.  You may find that person at a young age, but for others, it might take a lifetime._

_As for romantic love – well, that’s a whole different, and much longer story.  I believe that everyone experiences romantic love differently, and that every story is different.  Love at first sight?  I’m not so sure about that.  I would recommend getting to know a person before you fall in love with them.  However, there really isn’t a surefire way to completely know someone, is there?  As time goes on, we change.  We become different people with each passing day, and while I think it’s important to know who you’re falling in love with, how can we know everything?_

_Keeping a bit of mystery, I think, is healthy for a relationship.  Continuing to learn new things about one another keeps the relationship alive and prevents it from dwindling.  Could you fall in love at first sight?  I honestly doubt it.  Though, maybe, you could feel that your chances of falling in love with someone are greater than they might be with other people, especially if you see them at a vulnerable point._

_Say for example, the first time you see someone, they’ve just found out their dog’s died.  They’re crying, they’re upset, and they’re vulnerable.  Those moments are what draw us to people, are what trigger reactions inside of us.  If you see someone on your way to work who simply greets you cheerily as you walk past, they won’t have the same impact on you as the dog-lover you run into as you sit alone in a coffee shop._

_As days go on, you see that dog-lover more often.  You’ve already felt a connection, already making up a fantasy life for the two of you in your spare time, but things might change.  You find out they work in the same building as you, and the dreams about meeting them across town for lunch dates are shoved away.  You find out they don’t have the same favorite band, so instead of attending that concert, you dream about them introducing you to their favorite band.  The details change, but you’ve still more or less fallen in love with them._

_In other cases, I’ve seen love sprout from hate, from friendship.  I’ve seen rocky, on-and-off relationships find stability, becoming marriages that last over twenty years.  As I’ve already said – every love story is different, and that’s what makes each one unique._

_Now, lastly, in response to marriage – that’s a subject I barely need to touch on.  I believe in it.  I think it’s useful, I think it’s meaningful, but I think just like love, it’s different for everyone.  And I also think it’s a huge, huge shame that in our country, it’s different in the sense of legality.  Yes, you’ve guessed it.  I support gay marriage, and I will until the day I die.  Love is love, people.  And while it might be different to everyone who experiences it, it is certainly something everyone deserves._

.

.

Cas finishes up the article and simply stares at the page, taking everything in.  He’s not entirely sure what this article means in relation to him, but it’s invoked a positive feeling from within himself.  He’s not sure that Dean loves him just yet, that seemed to be almost clear, but he wonders if it will take much longer for them to admit that they’re falling in love, and surely, they’ll soon love each other enough to call it that.

It scares him a little, to admit to himself that he’s falling in love – but what else would he call it?  Dean’s everything he’s ever dreamed of in a friend, and more.  There’s an unspoken bond between them of understanding, of mutual desire, of equal amounts of pain – which they’re slowly easing through together.

Though Cas is fighting a war with himself, for the time being, he so desperately hopes that Dean feels just as strongly about him as he feels about Dean.  He can’t stop himself now, can’t turn back.  He’s been falling for Dean since the moment he picked up that newspaper and read his first article, and it only continues to progress.  Dean is rapidly becoming the most important person in his life, and he just can’t fight it.

“Cas!”

He turns, startled, to find Pamela smirking at him.  He lowers the paper sheepishly, biting his lip.

“What a coincidence,” Pamela murmurs.  “Dean writes about love the week after he has a date with you.”

Cas sighs.  “Don’t get my hopes up, Pamela.”

“I’m not trying to do anything,” Pamela says slyly.  “Just statin’ the facts.”

Cas lets out a huff, and his reply is cut short when he looks up to find someone walking through the door – someone familiar.  He smiles as Dean walks forward, greeting him at the counter with a kiss.

“You know my usual,” he says as he pulls away.

Cas smiles.  “Yes, I do.”

He calls for a black coffee, and Pamela tells him she’ll get it.  He can take his break now.  Eventually, Pamela just lets him off the clock, because it’s dead and their only customer is Dean, and Pamela has her creepy little fetish with watching the two of them make heart-eyes at each other.  Still, Cas appreciates it – especially when he and Dean sneak into one of the back storerooms when Pamela takes the garbage out.

Yeah, being boyfriends definitely has its advantages. 


	7. Chapter 7

With both of their busy schedules, it’s not really a surprise that they almost miss their one-month anniversary.  It’s Dean who remembers two days before, and he greets Cas with a soft kiss and an, “It’s almost our anniversary,” when he arrives at the café.

Cas pulls back, narrowing his eyes.  “Wait – what?”

“It’s been almost a month,” Dean replies, and then he smiles.  “You forgot too?  I only remembered this morning.”

“Oh my God,” Cas mutters.  “Dean – Dean, we should do something – something special.  But I don’t know what.  I mean, we could – “

“Cas,” Dean says firmly, grabbing his arm.  “Cas, calm down.  Of course we can do something, but we don’t need to make a huge deal out of it.  I mean – I know you don’t exactly have a lot of money right now.  We could just – stay home, watch reruns of Dr. Sexy.”

Cas rolls his eyes, but his lips turn up into a grin.  “I can cook,” he suggests.

“And I can rent some DVDs from RedBox,” Dean says.

“Hmmm,” Cas hums.  “Sounds like a date.”

Dean presses another kiss to Cas’ lips.  They’re forced to jump apart when Pamela passes by, saying loudly, “No PDA in my café.”

.

.

Dean comes over around noon, and Cas has just gotten out of the shower.  His hair is still wet, and he’s only half-dressed, looking for a nice shirt to wear today.  The moment Dean lays eyes on Cas bare torso, his eyebrows raise and he smirks, giving a look that clearly says he likes what he sees.  Cas rolls his eyes, turning back inside his apartment.

“I’ll be ready in just a moment,” he says, heading back to his room and grabbing a button-down shirt and an old cardigan from his closet.  He puts his arms through the sleeves of each and pulls the cardigan up over his shoulders before heading back out into the main area while simultaneously buttoning up his shirt.

Dean’s waiting in the kitchen, a pile of DVDs on the counter beside him.

“What movies did you pick up?” Cas asks, wrapping his cardigan around himself.

Dean smiles, holding one up.

“Really?” Cas asks, voice laced with sarcasm.  “ _Star Trek_ , Dean.  Really?”

“Hey, come on – you said we’d watch them weeks ago,” Dean points out defensively.  Cas sighs, crossing his arms, and Dean moves forward, stepping behind Cas and rubbing his hands across Cas’ shoulders.  “But don’t worry.  I got you _Inception_ and _V for Vendetta_.”

Cas grins before turning his head and meeting Dean’s lips with his own.  “Thank you.  You’re the best.”

Dean chuckles softly.  “I know.  Now,” he says,  stepping away from Cas, “I do believe we have a lunch date.  Shall we get going?”

“Of course,” Cas replies. 

He grabs his coat from where it’s draped across one of the stools and follows after Dean.

With classic rock mixtapes blaring through the speakers, and Dean sitting next to him, Cas thinks the shotgun seat of the Impala is starting to feel a bit like home.  He leans back, letting himself relax as Dean drives through the streets of Chicago. 

Eventually, they arrive at some deli Dean promises is “the best in the Midwest.”  Cas doesn’t argue.  He takes Dean’s hand and walks inside with him, already feeling like today might be one of the best anniversaries he could ask for.

The place is nice, small and cozy, and the food is positively delicious.  Cas orders a simple turkey sandwich, but Dean orders a Meat Lovers Special.  Watching him take it down is outrageously entertaining, and more than once, Cas nearly chokes.

They’re halfway through a shared piece of pie when Dean sets down his fork and clears his throat.

Cas looks up at him curiously, mid-bite.

“Alright,” Dean starts.  “Don’t freak out.  I know we didn’t say anything about gifts, and I know you can’t afford to get me anything – though trust me, your cooking will be _more_ than enough – but I got you something anyway.” 

He pulls out a box wrapped in newspaper from somewhere under the table, setting it in front of Cas, who feels a little dizzy.

“Dean,” he says, shaking his head.  “Dean, I didn’t – “

“I know,” Dean says, nodding.  “I don’t care.”

Cas stares at him silently, mouth hanging open. 

“Open it,” Dean urges.  “Seriously, Cas.”

Letting out a small noise of frustration, Cas begins pulling the newspaper, muttering, “ . . Don’t even know where you pulled this from, how you snuck it in here.”

Dean just shakes his head, laughing under his breath.

After pushing aside the torn paper, Cas carefully pulls the lid of the box.  What’s inside actually knocks the breath out of him, and his jaw falls open.  He reaches down, unsure, gently wrapping his fingers around the object.  Slowly, delicately, he cradles it in his hand and pulls it out, turning it around in his hands and admiring it from every angle.

It’s a Nikon camera, and –

“It’s secondhand,” Dean says.  “I got it cheap, so don’t worry about the price, but the owner promised me she’d only used it once or twice.”

“Dean,” Cas says breathlessly, rubbing his fingers along the neckstrap.  “Dean, I don’t know what to say – except – except – thank you.  Thank you so much.”

Dean blushes and rubs at his neck.  “I just – I remembered you saying on our first date that you dreamed of being a photographer, and I thought – well, maybe I could help with that.”

Without warning, Cas pushes himself up, leans across the table, and kisses Dean hard.  It’s a long minute before he pulls away, muttering, “I love you so much.”

Dean freezes, and after a second, Cas does too, realizing what he’d just said.

“Dean, I’m sorry.  I didn’t – “

“No,” Dean says quickly, and his shocked expression melts into one of happiness.  “I’m glad you do. I’m just – I’m not used to hearing that, but I – I love you too.” 

The two of them stare at each other for a moment before looking down, overcome with a sudden surge of shyness.  It takes another minute before the adrenaline of the moment drains away, and they dare to look at each other again, dissolving immediately into soft laughter.

“Um,” Dean says, clearing his throat.  “We should – we should get going.  We should head out and walk around for a bit – you can take pictures.”

Cas’ smile nearly splits his face as he looks down at his camera, running a finger across the lens.  Dean scoots out of the booth, standing up.  He wraps a hand around Cas’ wrist, tugging gently.

“Come on,” he says, half-laughing.

Cas stumbles from the booth, wrapping his hand around Dean’s as he goes.  They head outside, and it’s a surprisingly nice day outside, the sun shining brightly.  Dean’s car is parked along the sidewalk, but they walk right past it, choosing instead to stay on foot. 

It doesn’t take long for Cas to start snapping pictures – especially when they stop in front of a pet store.  He squats close to the display window, eyeing up the kittens rolling around on a soft blanket.  He gets a few good shots before he drops the camera against his chest   Letting out a small, high-pitched noise, he presses a hand up against the window, watching as a kitten sniffs at the glass.

“Look at them, Dean,” he says, almost breathless. 

Dean gives noncommittal grunt, and Cas turns around, immediately judgmental.

“Don’t tell me you don’t like cats.”

Dean gives him a sheepish look.  “It’s kind of a personal thing.”

“Aww, did a cat turn up its nose at you when you were young?” Cas asks sarcastically, giving a pout.

“No,” Dean says defensively.  “I’m allergic.”

Cas frowns, wrinkling up his nose.  “That’s unfortunate.”

Another good fifteen minutes pass before Dean has to physically drag Cas away from the pet store window. 

By the end of their outing, it feels like they’ve walked through entire city of Chicago – even with Cas holding them up, stopping every other minute to take pictures of old buildings, alleyways, and other store windows.  And on their way back to the car, he calls Dean’s name, snapping a photo before he even realizes what’s happening.

“Aww, seriously?” he mutters.  “You could’ve just asked me to smile.”

Cas looks over the top of the camera.  “Will you?” 

Dean shakes his head, trying to turn away, but at the mischievous grin that spreads across his face, Cas takes another photo.  He examines the result and is really, really pleased with it.  Dean’s eyes are closed, and his face is half-turned the opposite direction, but the pure joy on his face is obvious, and Cas knows it’s probably his favorite he’s taken today.

Dean looks at it and groans, but Castiel cradles the camera against his chest, muttering, “I really like it.”

“Of course you do, you little shit,” Dean laughs, opening the passenger side door for Cas.

“Hey – you look beautiful in it,” Cas promises, sliding inside. 

“You’re just saying that.”

“I’m not!” Cas says loudly as Dean shuts the door.

He’s not.  It’s not always that Cas gets to see Dean so ecstatic like he has been today, and he knows he’ll treasure that picture for as long as he has it – most and especially on the days that he or Dean is feeling down.

They continue to bicker once Dean’s in the car, but it’s purely light-hearted – and halfway to Cas’ apartment, Dean reaches across the car and grabs his hand, intertwining their fingers.

“I’m giving you a hard time, Cas,” he assures.  “But I’m really glad you’re enjoying your gift.”

Cas rubs his thumb across one of Dean’s fingers.  “I am too.  And again – thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Dean replies.  “I’m just glad I could make you happy.”

Cas doesn’t know what to say to that, but he hopes a smile and a heartwarming glance will suffice.

.

.

It’s dark by the time Dean and Cas return to Cas’ apartment.  Immediately, Cas gets dinner going, setting water on the stove to boil.  Dean shrugs out of his coat, and lays it over the back of Cas’ couch.  He stretches his arms out, yawning hugely.

“You’re not going to fall asleep on me, are you?” Cas asks, smiling fondly as he looks over at Dean.

Returning a lazy grin, Dean shakes his head, moving over to where Cas hovers at the stove.  Dean sneaks up behind him and wraps his arms around Cas’ waist, resting his head on Cas’ shoulder.  He hums, closing his eyes and nuzzling his face into Cas’ neck.  Cas squirms a little in response, a few breathy giggles escaping his lips, and a warmth settles in Dean’s stomach.

After a moment, Cas stiffens, turning his head slightly.  “Are you going to stay wrapped around me, or do you want to help me prepare dinner?”

Dean sighs, forcing himself to pull away slightly.  “Actually, I need to use the bathroom.  Is that alright?” he asks, voice tinged with a hint of sarcasm.

Cas rolls his eyes.  “That’s fine.  Go ahead.”

Dean presses a soft kiss to the nape of Castiel’s neck before he releases his grip on him.  He turns away, and sneakily, grabs his bag where he had left it on the floor next to the bar counter.  It’s still zipped, still safe.  Neck growing hot and mind growing anxious, Dean makes his way quickly to the bathroom, locking the door behind him.

Dean’s hands shake as he pulls the equipment out of his bag.  He’s not even sure how he made it back to Castiel’s place without having a breakdown; he’s really pushing the limit here.  Fumbling, Dean prepares the needle and then shoves the sleeve of his shirt back.  He takes a deep breath, looks briefly for a vein, and in one quick motion, shoves the needle into his arm.  The morphine drains into his system, and he lets out a sigh of relief.

Calming down, Dean collapses onto the closed lid of the toilet.  His breath is starting to slow down, waning away from his near-hyperventilating state.  Once comfortable, he pulls the needle from his arm and lazily cleans it off before stowing it back away in his kit.  He stows the kit into the bottom of his bag, underneath the change of clothes he brought, and zips up the bag.

A slight buzzing fills Dean’s ears, and he looks at himself in the mirror.  He looks a little out of it, but otherwise – he’s fine.  He’s good, now.  Cas won’t suspect a thing. 

(He hopes.)

He splashes a little water on his face for good measure, and then exits the bathroom.  He heads back out into the kitchen and stows his bag under one of the stools lined up against the bar counter.  Cas is still cooking away, completely oblivious.

“Alright,” Dean says, smiling slightly.  “I’m ready to help out.”

About an hour later, the food is ready, and it smells fantastic.  There’s only one problem – Dean isn’t hungry.  In fact, he’s a little nauseous.  Despite that, he forces some food down, only stopping when he’s afraid he’ll legitimately barf all over the place.  He’s barely made a dent.

Cas frowns when he realizes Dean’s done.

“I thought you liked my cooking.”

“I do, I do,” Dean assures.  “I’m sorry, Cas.  I just feel a little . . . sick.  I think it was the Meat Lovers Special.”

Cas laughs, picking up the plate from in front of Dean as he heads towards the sink to wash up.  “I warned you,” he says, flipping on the faucet.  “It’s not right to have that many types of meat on one sandwich – especially when one is bologna.  That’s not even meat.  That’s waste products.”

Dean chuckles, hopping down from his stool.  “I’m going to get the movie started, alright?”

“Which one?” Cas asks.

Dean rolls his eyes as he walks across the room, heading for the small TV set.  “Not _Star Trek_ , obviously.  _Inception_.”

“Good choice,” Cas remarks.

He finishes cleaning up, and then joins Dean on the small, shabby sofa.  The movie begins rolling, and it doesn’t take two scenes before Cas is leaning his head against Dean’s shoulder, Dean wrapping an arm around Cas’ waist in response, pulling him closer.  It’s hard to make out during a movie that’s action-packed, but cuddling is just fine.

After they finish up _Inception_ , they decide not to bother with another movie, and predictably, Dean puts on reruns of _Dr. Sexy_.  Once the sex scenes start playing, it’s a little hard to ignore the urges, and soon enough, the two of them can’t keep their hands off one another.

Dean pushes Cas into the cushions of the couch, kissing him hard.  Cas settles his hands on Dean’s waist as Dean straddles him, and quickly, he deepens the kiss, running his tongue along the edge of Dean’s teeth.  He tries to gain control, taking his tongue back and biting at Dean’s lip, but Dean won’t have any of it.  He tears his mouth away from Cas’ and kisses across his jaw instead, moving towards the skin just under Cas’ earlobe.  He licks a stripe up Cas’ neck, and then begins sucking.  Cas lets out a strangled moan, writhing just slightly underneath him.

Annoyed with the restriction, Dean grips the collar of Cas’ cardigan and pushes it back, attempting to get it off.  Cas helps him, shrugging out of it.  His fingers fumble alongside Dean’s as they unbutton his shirt.  Dean rips it open and immediately begins kissing down Cas’ chest, stopping to lick another strip across his collarbone.  He moves next to one of Cas’ nipples, tongue toying with it.  Cas’ back arches up just slightly off the couch, and Dean takes it as an invitation to keep moving downward.

Cas is hard, and Dean notices the second his hand comes up to undo his belt. 

“Dean, wait,” Cas says, the words leaving his mouth in a choke.

Dean looks up, freezing.

“Let’s – this couch is small,” Cas says.  “Let’s take it to the bedroom.”

Dean grins, and gets off of Cas.  He helps Cas up, and then they’re hurrying across the apartment, giggling uncontrollably.  As soon as they set foot in Cas’ room, Cas shoves Dean up against the wall.  He kicks off his pants and underwear, tossing them to the ground.  Dean grins devilishly as Cas surges forward, hands rushing up to grab at Dean’s hair as his hips hold Dean back.

Once they’ve got kissing into a slow and steady motion, Cas dares to drop his hands, reaching instead for Dean’s zipper.  He undoes Dean’s pants, and shoves them down to his mid-thigh.  His cock is straining in his boxers, and Cas grins against Dean’s mouth as he pulls it out, giving a few strokes.  As expected, Dean’s hips begun to buck, and Cas lets go, thrusting his own hips hard against Dean’s.  Dean’s ass bangs into the wall, a groan escapes his throat.

Cas breaks their kiss and huffs a breathy laugh.  His hands come down again, fingers curving over the curve of Dean’s ass as he continues to rock their hips together.  After a moment, Dean begins struggling.  He works to get his jeans and boxers off.  Once they are, Cas follows his lead and helps Dean bring his legs up, wrapping them around Cas’ waist. 

Picking up the pace, Cas begins thrust again, a little harder.  Dean throws his head back, grinding his teeth together, and Cas kisses up his neck, sucking just below the curve of his jaw.  After another minute, Dean gathers up enough strength to speak.

“Cas,” he pants.  “Cas, hold on.  Slow down.”

Cas stops thrusting, but he continues to kiss Dean’s neck and jaw.

“Cas,” Dean says again, voice shaking.  “Cas, I – I want you inside me.”

That gets his attention.  Cas freezes, pulling back.  He looks Dean in the eye uncertainly.  “Are you serious?” he asks.  “You – you really – “

Dean nods.  “I want you so bad, Cas.  Please.”

Cas takes his turn to nod, grinning.  “Alright,” he says, breathless.  “Let’s head over to the bed.  I’ll – I’m going to get the lube, and – “

He trails off, stepping back and letting Dean to the ground.  He hurries to the bathroom, digging a bottle of lube and a condom from the cabinet underneath the sink.  When he returns, Dean has stripped down completely and settled himself in Cas’ bed, legs wide open.  Cas joins him eagerly, crawling up and settling himself between Dean’s legs.  He pulls the condom over his own cock, and with shaking hands, slathers lube on himself.

“Are you ready?” Cas asks, raising an eyebrow.

Dean nods, taking a deep breath.  “Go ahead.”

Nerves bubbling in his stomach, Cas presses a finger into Dean’s hole.  Dean hisses in response, obviously in pain.

“I’m sorry,” Cas mutters, but Dean shakes his head.

“No, it’s okay,” he grunts.  “Just keep going.”

Hesitantly, Cas moves his finger around, trying his best to ignore it as Dean sucks in air through his teeth.  He presses against Dean’s prostate, and then Dean loosens up a little, body shaking with pleasure rather than with pain.

“Another,” Dean chokes out.  “Go ahead, Cas.”

Cas does so, pressing a second finger inside.  He leans down this time, kissing Dean softly to counter the pain, though it seems to be subsiding.  Dean’s hips begin to move as Cas continues to move his fingers, once the pleasure seems to outweigh the pain, Cas puts one last finger in.  Dean’s breath hitches dramatically, and then he lets out an obnoxious moan.

“Cas,” he breathes.  “Oh my God – Cas, just – I’m ready.  Get on with it.”

With his free hand, he quickly adds a bit more lube onto himself.  He pulls his fingers out and instead uses his hands to push Dean’s legs just a bit farther apart.  Nervously, butterflies raging in his stomach, Cas lines himself up with Dean’s hole, and then carefully, he begins to slide himself in.  Dean mutters several profanities, and Cas hesitates.

“Dean?”

“I’m fine,” Dean grunts.  “Just – a little more careful.”

Cas nods, pushing himself all the way inside.  Dean lets out the breath he’d been holding in, and Cas’ head begins to spin.  In preparing Dean, he’d forgotten how much his own cock is begging for relief, but now with Dean’s warmth surrounding him, he’s all too aware.  He almost can’t control himself as he begins thrusting.

Dean grinds his teeth together again, squeezing his eyes shut.  Cas tries to be gentler, but it’s growing increasingly more difficult.  He manages to slow just slightly, but evidently, Dean doesn’t care about the pain either.

“Don’t slow down,” he says in a hiss.  “Go harder, Cas.  Please – ugh , God – just go harder.”

Cas nods, and he does, working himself up until he’s all but slamming in and out of Dean.    

“Ugh – you’ve got it now,” Dean breathes.  “Just like that.”

His hips begin to follow Cas’ movements as he becomes desperate.  Evidently, it’s not enough, and soon Dean is reaching for his cock himself, stroking himself in line with Cas’ thrusts.  It doesn’t take long now before he’s letting out a strangled, high-pitched noise and coming all over himself.  Almost immediately, Cas follows after.

It’s the look of pure ecstasy on Dean’s face that does it, mixed with the sheen of sweat that covers his body – this is possibly the hottest Cas has ever seen Dean look.  Dean’s legs close tight around Cas’ waist as he comes, and then Cas’ loses it.  His own scream mingles with Dean’s string of curse words, and he’s coming, hips coming to a stop and settling against Dean’s.

They sit for a moment, catching their breath, and then they’re meeting each other’s eyes, smiling like idiots.  They kiss one more time, savoring the moment.  Haphazardly, they clean up, tossing the condom in the garbage and stripping the sheets off the bed. 

They sleep on the bare mattress, curled into one another.  Cas leaves the window creaked open just slightly, letting the spring air seep into the room.  The sounds of the city lull him to sleep, and he thinks that yeah – this was probably the best anniversary he could have asked for.


	8. Chapter 8

This time, Cas wakes up late in an empty bed.  The smell of coffee tells him that Dean hasn’t left, and Cas smiles, turning onto his side and burying his face in his pillow.  He lies there for a few minutes, reminiscing about the previous night before he decides he should get up and meet Dean out in the kitchen.

He realizes that he’s still naked as he climbs out of his bed, and he heads over to his dresser and grabs a pair of boxer briefs from the top drawer.  As he’s pulling them on, his eyes spot Dean’s button up shirt on the floor, and he smiles as his brain produces a brilliant idea.

The moment Dean spots him in his shirt and only a pair of underwear, he grins – full of pride and mischievousness.  He pulls Cas in for a quick kiss before backing off and handing him a cup of coffee.

“Thank you,” Cas says, taking it.  He laughs.  “You’re the one serving me coffee for once.”

“Not just coffee,” Dean corrects, pointing to the stove where eggs are cooking.  “Breakfast too.”

“Eggs and toast,” Cas hums.  “Just like our first morning after.”

“Precisely.”

This time it’s Cas who leans in for a kiss, pressing his lips softly to Dean’s.  He pulls away and bites his own, keeping his smile to a minimum as he walks around the counter and hops up onto a stool.  Dean fills a plate up and sets the food in front of Cas before joining him.  Cas notices as they eat, that Dean’s food is much less, but he doesn’t say anything.

“So,” Dean starts when he’s finished, pushing his plate away.  “I think I have our day planned already.”

Cas turns, quirking an eyebrow.  “How long have you been up?”

Dean laughs, shaking his head.  “Only an hour, but I brainstormed a ton when I bought you your anniversary gift.  Anyway – I was thinking – do you remember when we were in that shop, and you were bummed you didn’t have enough spare money to get a couple of those landscape posters to put up in your room?”

Cas nods, continuing to eat.  And you know, sometimes he’s still so in awe that Dean remembers all of these little things, that he actually pays attention to Cas and keeps these moments with him, looking back on them later.

“Well, why not use the pictures you took yesterday?” Dean asks.  “We could go get them developed today and hang them up in your room.  I mean – they’re not going to be as big as those posters, but we can get started covering your walls with them.”

Cas glances at him again, looking really impressed.  “Dean, that’s a great idea.”

“Glad you think so,” Dean replies, hopping down from his stool with his plate and walking around to the sink.

Cas watches him as he does the dishes, wondering how on Earth he got so lucky.

.

.

After Cas finishes eating, they share a shower and get dressed, preparing to head out.  The library isn’t too busy when they arrive, and they’re able to develop Cas’ photos fairly quickly.  They stop at an office supply store on their way home, picking up a few rolls of tape.

Back in Castiel’s apartment, they set up shop.  Dean turns up the radio in the kitchen, switching it to a classic rock station.  Cas shakes his head in response, but secretly, he finds it endearing, and he can’t really help but laugh at the adorable way Dean sings along, belting at the top of his lungs and banging his head.

“My neighbors are going to call the police if you don’t quiet down,” Cas says.

Dean smirks and leans in for a kiss, muttering, “You love it.”

Cas blushes, because he does, and Dean goes back to dancing around.

They decide to start putting up Cas’ pictures in rows above his bed.  Five pictures in each row, and they’ll see how far they get.  After the first row is finished, Dean takes a step back, admiring their work.  He chews on his lips for a moment, a smile playing at them.

“You know, Cas,” he says.  “This – this is some really impressive stuff.  I could see you becoming a professional someday.”

Cas’ chest tightens, an odd feeling filling him up.  “Do you mean that?”

“Yeah,” Dean says honestly, and he looks over at Cas, taking his hand.  “These are _incredible_ , Cas.  Amazing.  If you try, you’ll make it someday.  Really.”

Cas ducks his head, hiding his smile.  “I – I don’t know about that.”

Dean lets out a small noise of frustration.  “Stop doubting yourself, Cas.”  He lets go of Cas’ hand and instead wraps his arms around Cas’ waist, pulling him closer.  He plants a gentle kiss on Cas’ cheek.  “You’re great, alright?”

“Sure, sure,” Cas says, shying away.

Dean pulls back, but keeps his arms around Cas’ waist.  “I’m gonna go hit the bathroom, ‘kay?”

“Okay,” Cas says, leaning up to kiss Dean’s cheek before he hurries off.

He comes back awhile later, once Cas has got the second row up.  He hops up onto the bed with another tape roll and a handful of pictures, singing along to Survivor’s “Eye of the Tiger.”  It’s the most hyped up he’s been all day, and Cas’ abs actually start to ache from laughing so hard.  The third row takes a lot longer to put up because of Dean’s antics.

Cas picks up the tape to begin the fourth row, but he pulls a piece off half the size he wants and discovers that he’s run out.  He jumps from his bed, ignoring Dean as he sings along passionately to Metallica.  He searches his bedside table and the ground beside it where pictures are scattered, but he can’t find a roll of tape.

“Hey, Dean,” he says, checking under the bed.  “Dean – where’s the other roll of tape?”

“In my bag,” Dean replies.

“Thank you,” Cas says, standing up and looking across the room.  Dean’s bag is by the door, and he walks over to it.

“Wait – Cas?”

“Yes?” he asks, crouching down.

“No, Cas, don’t – I’ll – I’ll – “

But Cas is already opening the bag, thoroughly confused by the sudden panic in Dean’s voice.  However, once he sees what’s inside, a different kind of panic starts to form inside of him.  His heart is racing as he reaches inside, ignoring the sound of hurried footsteps.  His hand comes out with a needle, and he feels like he’s going to vomit.

“Dean?” he says quietly.

“Cas, I – you weren’t supposed to see that.”

Cas turns the needle over in his shaking hands, closing his eyes tightly.

“Dean, please – don’t – _fuck_.  Please tell me this isn’t what I think it is.”

“It’s not for heroin,” Dean says, voice quiet.

Cas feels something violent rip through him, and he pushes back the images that are trying to push the dam he built in his mind.

“It’s – it’s for morphine,” Dean says, and his voice trembles.  “Cas, I’m – I’m sorry – I – “

“Oh my God,” Cas mutters, horrified.  He wraps his hand tightly around the needle, bringing up his other hand to his mouth.  He turns around, and his eyes are already starting to sting. 

“Cas – “

A hand presses tentatively on his shoulder, and Cas shoves it away harshly.

“Don’t _touch_ me,” he hisses, whipping around.  He drops the needle back into the bag, only feeling sicker when he catches sight of the dozens of pill bottles.  “God, I – just – I can’t believe you kept this from me.”

“What was I supposed to do, Cas?” Dean asks, and the anger bleeding into his voice sends another ripple of panic through Cas’ body.

“Tell me the _truth_ ,” Cas through clenched teeth, and shit – he’s crying now.  “Tell me that you’re an addict.  Tell me that I was falling in love with someone like this.  Tell me that I was making _a mistake_.”

Dean takes a step back, swallowing hard.  Tears are brimming in his eyes too, but Cas can’t find a cell within him that cares.  He feels his breath starting to come quicker and quicker, and he knows he’s on the edge of a panic attack.

“Cas, I was going to say something,” he says.  “I just didn’t know how.”

“Honestly, it wouldn’t have changed my mind,” Cas replies bitterly.

“Cas, please – “

A sob escapes Cas’ lips, and he shakes his head.  “Leave, Dean.  Please.”

“Just let me explain – “

“There’s nothing you can say.  Please – leave.”

“Cas, if you would just – “

“I don’t care what you have to say,” Cas says, raising his voice.  Tears are streaming down his face now, but he’s quaking with anger.  “You _lied_ to me.  You lead me on to believe you were somebody you weren’t.   I don’t want to be a part of this relationship anymore, Dean.  I want you to leave.  I want you to get out of my house and out of my life.  And don’t even _think_ about coming back.”

Dean stands there for just a moment longer, breathing heavily as he stares at Cas.  A tear leaks down his cheek and he reaches up, irritated, to wipe it.  He sighs heavily, turning to grab his things.  Cas keeps staring straight ahead as he bends down and collects his bag.  He closes his eyes as Dean stands back up, not daring to look, but Dean’s voice comes quietly anyway.

“I’m sorry, Cas – I am.  I may have lied about the kind of person I am, but I never lied about loving you.  I hope you can move on from this, and I’m just – I’m sorry.  I never deserved someone like you, and I’m sorry for fooling you into this.  I just – I’m – I’m sorry.  Goodbye, Cas.”

Cas stays silent, keeping still until he hears the sound of the front door slamming shut.  The sound is like a gun, hitting him with a bullet that sends him over the edge, destroying any sense of composure he had.  He collapses to the floor, the sobs ripping through him. 

It isn’t long before the flashbacks come, and he starts to hyperventilate.  He somehow makes his way to the bed, grabbing one of the pillows and shoving it to his face.  Eventually, his breathing slows and he stops shaking.  He feels terribly nauseous and exhausted, and he stays curled up in a fetal position for what feels like days.

As he lies there, images continue to flash through his mind –

Lucifer, eyes red and stare blank.

A shouting match – Michael tearing down Lucifer, Gabriel off to the side, watching tentatively.

Their father, heading out the door as Lucifer shouts abuse at him.

Anna, dressed in black, crying next to Cas as they sit in the front pew.

Eventually, Cas finds the strength to get up and drag himself to the bathroom.  He pulls open the door of the medicine cabinet, searching desperately for the sleeping pills.  Once he locates them, he pours a few into his hand.  He takes them with a drink from the faucet and then heads back into his room, giving himself into the gentle arms of sleep.

.

.

Dean doesn’t know how long he’s been walking, but it’s dark now, and his car is nowhere in sight.  He’s drunk, completely drunk off his ass, and he downed what was left of the sleeping pills.  He should probably be passed out by now, but he supposes his body’s built up resistance.

Dean looks around, trying to get some kind of sense of where he is.  There are no cars around, and he can hear a dog barking somewhere nearby.  He stumbles into an alley, and sees the familiar abandoned insurance building on his left.  It’s no surprise his subconscious brought him here.

Taking a deep breath, Dean slides to the ground, closing his eyes.  He’s been trying to ignore the pain all day, trying to push it back with alcohol and pills and the last of his morphine injections, but nothing is working.  He can still hear Cas’ angry words ringing in his ear:

_Tell me that I was making a mistake_

_I don’t want to be a part of this relationship anymore, Dean._

_I want you to get out of my house and out of my life._

_Don’t even think about coming back._

He feels sick and angry and so achingly sad all at once.  He can’t decide if he wants to throw up, drown himself in drugs and alcohol, or take a gun to his head.  Fortunately – or maybe unfortunately, someone else comes to decide for him.

“Dean?”

He looks up wearily, finding someone familiar.

“Crowley.”

“I don’t believe we had a meeting tonight, did we?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

“No,” Dean assures.  “We didn’t, I just – I had a rough day, and I – I think I might need something.”

Crowley smiles, putting his hands in his pockets.  “Well, Dean, I’d be happy to oblige, but you’re near interrupting another appointment of mine, and I don’t have much left on me today.  I might just have to ask you to throw in some extra change for a little . . . compensation.”

“I’ll do whatever,” Dean replies with a groan.  “Just give me the best you got.”

Crowley takes his time digging into his jacket.  “One moment,” he says, holding up a finger.  At last, he latches onto something, pulling it out with an, “Aha!” 

He holds out the bag in front of Dean’s face, waving it around before pulling it back.

“That, my dear boy, is a special cocktail I learned from the best Lord in Los Angeles.  You’ll have to pay big for it, I’m afraid, but it’s worth it.”

Dean digs into his pocket, pulling out several rumpled bills.  He holds them out, giving Crowley a fair view of them.  “I have more in the car if you need it.”

Crowley clicks his tongue, counting up the cash.  “Ah – you know normally I’d ask for more, but I’ve got someone coming any minute now, and since you’re one of my best customers, I’ll let it slide.  It’s a deal.”

A small sense of relief washes over Dean as Crowley takes the money, handing Dean the bag of powder.  Dean gives it a shake, watching as dust coats the inside stretch of plastic.

“You be careful with that now, darling,” Crowley says with a chuckle.

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean replies, pushing himself off the ground. 

He has to get back to his car, back to his equipment.  He’s going to down this whole goddamn bag, and if he’s lucky, he’ll finally pass out, and maybe, just maybe – he won’t wake up afterward.

.

.

Cas wakes up around midnight and takes another round of sleeping pills, and yet, when he wakes up for work the next morning, he’s still exhausted.  He drags himself into the shower, half-wishing he could drown himself.  He doesn’t eat breakfast, because he doubts his stomach could handle it, but he drinks a quick cup of coffee before heading out.

He takes a different route to work today, wishing to stay away from the hustle and bustle.  He takes one of the safer backstreets, because he doesn’t think he has the emotional strength to handle running into any druglords this early in the morning, but he does wish for a little more solitude.

However, the quiet gives him time to think, and as he relives what happened the day before, he’s starting to second-guess himself and really regret what he did.  He knows what Dean’s been doing, what kind of dangerous things his behavior entails, but he’s still Dean.  He’s still the lonely and intelligent writer who swears too much and likes to dance around and sing along to classic rock songs.  He’s still the guy who bought Cas a camera on their one month anniversary just because Cas told him he’d always dreamed of being a photographer.  He’s still the guy who’s been there for Cas during this difficult time without even realizing.  And he’s still the guy who loves Cas, and who Cas still loves in return.

Cas lets out a heavy sigh, running a hand through his hair.  He knows it might not be good for him to continue a relationship with Dean while he still has this problem.  He knows that that kind of behavior is still triggering to be around, but Cas has been doing better, and so far, Dean has helped Cas a lot more than he’s harmed him.

Cas just doesn’t know.  It’s a lot to consider, and still so much to take in.  Maybe he’ll talk to Pamela today and see what she thinks.  Dean will still no doubt be coming around to the café, hopefully still interested in rekindling their relationship. 

And maybe if Cas comes to that decision, they can try again.

Cas shoves his hands into the pockets of his jacket, looking down at his feet as he walks along the road.  This whole experience is starting to make him think about himself, starting to make him reevaluate the whole point of his hospital stay and the medication and how exactly he’s supposed to be “getting better.”  If you ask him, he hasn’t done much to help himself.  He still can’t think about what’s in the past, still has a hard time thinking that he deserves anything – for God’s sake, he can’t even count the nights he stayed up, wondering when things would come crashing down between him and Dean.  And now look where he is.

And maybe he was right all along.  Maybe this is his own fault.  Maybe he was the one who destroyed everything – not Dean.  He overreacted.  He let his own experiences get in the way.  He let himself get consumed by judgment, not letting allowing himself to hear Dean out.  And shit – he’s starting to feel terribly guilty.

He should have let Dean talk.  He should have heard Dean’s side of the story, and maybe they could have done something about it together.  He knows Dean’s not an idiot, not some kind of brainless moron who got hooked onto drugs because it was “cool.”  There was a story there, and Cas should be the first to know that.  Dean’s not malicious, and he would have never intended for his addiction to ever become dangerous.  Dean’s a good person, and Cas knows. 

He knows because that’s all Dean ever was to him.  Dean was kind and supportive and he was the self-esteem Cas never had.  Dean always made sure to let Cas know how amazing he was, and even though they haven’t known each other for too long, it’s felt like years.  Cas has gone for so, so long without anyone at all caring about him the way Dean has, and Cas let him go for some stupid mistakes Dean made.  Cas let him go for a story he never heard, and a snap judgment he made on the basis of absolutely nothing.

Cas feels nauseous, and he wraps an arm around his middle.

He has to do something.  He has to find him, has to talk to him.  He has to make things right and get a clearer view of this picture.  He can’t let Dean go.  Not now.  Not when Dean’s probably hurting as badly as Cas has this past few months.  Cas owes him that.

The next time Dean comes into the café, he’ll make sure of it.  Cas will take Dean aside for a mature conversation, and they’ll work things out if it kills them.

However, Cas isn’t sure they’ll ever get the chance to do that – not when he rounds the corner and walks into a scene that just about sends him into an immediate panic attack.  It takes almost a full minute for him to register what’s happening, and his body’s on its way to shutting down, but he won’t let it.

He hurries forward, dropping down beside Dean – who’s vomiting violently into a sewer, body shaking uncontrollably and eyelids fluttering.

.

.

Everything is hazy.  Dean can’t see, can’t hear – he can hardly think.  He feels like he’s throwing up entire organs by now, and he can feel his heart slowing down with each beat.  He’s going to die.  He can tell, and maybe – maybe he’s glad.  Maybe this is the relief he’s been desperate for all of these years.

But just his luck, right when he accepts it, right when he’s ready to walk right into Death’s open arms, someone comes to stop him.  He can’t tell who it is at first.  He can only feel the hands – gripping his shoulders, rubbing his back, running along his forehead, feeling at his pulse.

The voice comes next, and his heart almost stops then.

“Dean – Dean, can you hear me?”

He struggles to answer, and all that comes is a groan.

“Dean?  Shit.  Oh, God.  Shit.  Shit. Shit.  Fuck, Dean.  What did you do?”

He throws up again, coughing and choking.  He tries to speak once more, but it’s hard to form the words when his body is so unresponsive.

“Drugs,” he manages to get out.  “I don’ – I don’ know wha’ they were.  I – I took . . . a lot.”

“Where did you get them?” Cas asks, voice shaking.  “Who gave them to you?”

“Dealer,” Dean replies, and God, if he could just get some control.  He still can’t even see.  Everything’s way too blurry.  “He – he said – they were . . . the best.”

“Oh, God,” Cas mutters again, and then his arms are tight around Dean’s waist.  “Dean, we – we need to get you to the hospital.”

“Why?” Dean asks, confused.  He just – he just wants to sleep.  He doesn’t want to go to the hospital.  He’s fine, or – he will be.  He’s drank himself to sleep before.  He’ll wake up feeling awful, but he’ll get over it.

“Because you fucking overdosed,” Cas replies.  “And you’re – fuck – God, I don’t want you to die, Dean.  Not like this.”

Dean can’t tell, but he thinks Cas is crying - which makes absolutely no sense.  Dean’s pretty sure Cas hates him.  Wasn’t that why he downed all of those drugs in the first place?  Dean’s not sure, now.  It’s hard to remember.

“Come on,” comes Cas’ voice again.  “Help me out, Dean.  Try to stand up.”

He tries, but it’s not very successful.  Somehow, he ends up limp, supported underneath his arms and knees, and he thinks Cas must be carrying him. 

“Stay with me, Dean.  God, please – just stay with me.”

Dean tries, but he’s really, really tired. 

The last thing he hears is Cas shouting, “Help!  Please, someone help me!  Call nine-one-one!  Please, someone!  Help me!” 

And then everything goes black.


	9. Chapter 9

Castiel never knew that quiet could be so loud.  He’s been waiting hours now in the waiting room, but it feels like days.  They won’t tell him what’s going on with Dean, or at least, they won’t tell him much.  He just knows that Dean’s safe now, that he’s being taken care of, and he’s not in danger of immediate death (he hopes).  They tell him that he can’t see Dean, not until visiting hours the next morning at the soonest.  He might have to wait a little longer – a few hours, a few days – they don’t know.

Cas waits all day.  He calls Pamela, tells her that Dean’s in the hospital and he can’t come in.  She tries to ask him questions, but he hangs up on her.  He doesn’t have the strength to talk about it; there’s still too much he’s trying to wrap around his own head.

Around midnight, Cas starts nodding off, fighting haphazardly to stay awake.  He’s dozing again when an argument shakes him from sleep.  He pushes himself up, looking around and rubbing at his eyes.  Just down the hall, a nurse is trying to calm down a tall, gangly guy who seems positively frantic.

“I’m sorry – I don’t – I don’t care.  I’m his _brother_.  I deserve to know what’s going on.”

“Mr. Winchester, we’re terribly sorry, but Dean’s in critical condition.  We can’t allow any visitors at the present time.”

“I don’t think you understand – “

“I do, Mr. Winchester.  I really do, but you’ll have to leave or take a seat.”

The guy opens his mouth to speak again, but decides against it and turns angrily away from the nurse, sitting in the row of chairs adjacent to Cas.  He leans forward against his knees, running a hand through his shaggy hair.

Tentatively, Cas shifts his weight, trying to work up the courage to speak.

“Um – hi,” he starts carefully.  The guy looks up, unsure.  “You’re – you’re Dean’s brother?”

“Yeah,” he says, swallowing hard.  “I’m Sam – Sam Winchester.  And you?”

“I’m Castiel,” he replies.  “Uh – Cas.  I’m – I was . . . Dean’s boyfriend.”  He rubs at the back of his neck, swallowing back the bile that rises in his throat.  Guilt’s starting to fill his stomach again, and he tries desperately to ignore it.  “I – I found him, and brought him here.”

Sam perks up, raising an eyebrow.  “Wait, so – do – do you know anything about what happened?”

Cas nods.  “They – they won’t tell me much, but – I – I found him, and he was . . . terribly, violently ill.”  Cas hesitates.  He doesn’t know much about Sam.   Only that he and Dean have been separated for awhile now, with very little contact, it seems.  “Sam, do you – did you know that Dean had been having trouble with addiction?”

Sam nods, licking his lips.  He looks down at the ground, avoiding Cas’ eyes.  “He inherited it.  Our – our father – he was an alcoholic, and his behavior rubbed off on Dean.”

Cas nods again.  “Well, he – Dean overdosed this morning.  And it – it looks like he did it intentionally.  They cleansed out his system, and they’re trying to restore him back to health.  In – in the meantime, he’s been put on suicide watch.”  Cas’ eyes begin to sting the moment the words leave his lips, and he turns away, wiping as a few tears escape.

Sam lets out a shaky breath, rubbing at his face.  “Oh my God,” he breathes.  “I didn’t – I didn’t even know.  I – I never even thought he – “

“Don’t blame yourself,” Castiel says quickly.  _Blame me_ , he wants to say, but he doesn’t.

A silent minute goes by before Sam claps his hands on his thighs and says, “Alright, I hope you don’t mind, but I’m gonna try to crash.  It’s been a long day, and I wasn’t able to sleep at all on the plane.”

“Go ahead,” Cas says, because he knows he won’t be able to sleep.

The arrival of Sam has brought too many things to light, put too many questions in Cas’ mind that he has no answer in reply.  And God – Dean.  Cas can’t even think about him right now, he just can’t.  He’ll start blaming himself too harshly or connecting the parallels, and he just – he needs to sleep, but he can’t.

.

.

Eventually, Cas falls asleep sometime around three in the morning.  He wakes up at seven, an hour before visiting hours, to find that Sam’s disappeared.  He uses the time to call Pamela and inform her just a bit about the situation.  He tells her that he still hasn’t seen Dean, that he doesn’t feel comfortable disclosing exactly what’s happened, that all she needs to know is that Dean’s in critical condition, but improving.

When he returns to the waiting room, so has Sam.  He’s picked up food, and it’s only when Cas’ stomach growls in reply does he realize he hasn’t eaten in nearly two days.  When Sam asks and Cas tells him the truth, Sam immediately offers him some of his breakfast.  Cas takes a small piece and nibbles at it, knowing full well that he’s hungry, but worried he might not be able to keep it down in this atmosphere.

Sam’s the one to break the silence, tip-toeing around a question Cas is not prepared for.  “So . . . you said you were my brother’s boyfriend?  What – what exactly happened there?”

Cas pales, immediately regretting having eaten anything.  “Well, I – I don’t know what we are now,” he starts, already working hard to keep his cool.  “But – but – well, we – we got into a bit of an argument.”  He hesitates, feeling his throat trying to close up.  A shuddering breath escapes his lips, and it takes him a moment to realize it’s a sob.

“Cas?” Sam asks, reaching out a hand.

“I’m – it – it’s my fault,” Cas whispers, and a few more sobs get through.  “Sam, it’s all my fault.”

“Hey – whoa, whoa, whoa,” Sam says, resting his hand on Cas’ shoulder.  “Slow down.  What’s your fault?”

“That Dean tried – that he – this whole thing,” Cas splutters out.  “It’s my fault.  I broke up with him and kicked him out of my apartment because I found out the truth.  I found out that he was an addict and I just kicked him out.  I didn’t let him explain – I didn’t even try to listen to him, and then he – he went in did this, and God, I can’t believe I did this.  I can’t believe I drove Dean to this.”

He collapses in on himself, wrapping his arms tightly around his torso and hanging his head.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Sam says quietly.  “Cas, shh – calm down.  Cas?  Cas, I want you to listen to me alright?  Can you do that?”

Cas nods pitifully.

“Cas, Dean – Dean wasn’t just prompted by you, okay?” Sam starts.  “He had a whole life before whatever happened with you, and I guarantee other things prompted him just as much as that fight might have – probably more.”  Sam heaves a sigh, dropping his hand from Castiel’s shoulder. 

“When – when I first found out Dean had gotten into drinking and drugs, I had the same reaction.  I told him to never contact me again, and I meant it.  Of course, I felt bad later, and I half-heartedly tried to call him and apologize, but he never answered, and I gave up.  Even before that – Cas, Dean’s life hasn’t ever been good for him.  Our mother died when he was young, but he was old enough to remember her.  After that, our father spiraled and became an alcoholic, and Dean was left to take care of both of us.  Until I left.  I left, and I didn’t look back, and I drove Dean away from me.  And then – then Dad died, and I knew – I _knew_ Dean was in trouble, but I didn’t care.  I _hated_ him them.  I hated him for sticking by our dad and allowing him to do what he did to us.  I hated Dean for putting up with it and choosing our father over of his own brother.  I hated him, Cas, and I made sure he knew that.  Of course, I never really did.  He was my brother, and my parents when they couldn’t be there.  He was the world to me, and I was just mad I wasn’t his.”

Sam’s choking up now, and he presses the back of his hand to his mouth for a moment.  He clears his throat, wiping at tears as he continues.  “The point is – Dean’s had a really shitty life, and it wasn’t all your fault.  Frankly, I’m surprised he’s never tried to kill himself before this.  Though I suppose that’s where the alcohol and the drugs came in.”

Cas doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know how he can respond in a way that will make either of them feel better.  He still wants to argue, still wants to insist that if he hadn’t reacted the way he did, Dean never would have tried to kill himself, but Sam’s upset, and Cas himself is tired, and he doesn’t want to make the situation any worse than it could possibly be.

They sit in silence, counting down the minutes until visiting hours open. 

At precisely 8:03, a nurse comes up to them, wearing a small smile.

“You must be the brother and the boyfriend,” she says cheerily, and the optimism in her voice almost gives Cas whiplash.   “Dean’s awake now, and he’s doing very well.  We’ve just moved him to a recovery unit, and he’s waiting to see you.”

Cas and Sam jump out of their chairs simultaneously, glancing at each other as they follow after the nurse back to Dean’s room.  It’s funny, how desperate they’ve been to see Dean, but once they reach the door of his room, they both hesitate, unsure.  Cas doesn’t know if he’s ready to see the damage, and he assumes Sam feels the same way.

“Go ahead,” Sam says quietly.  “Whatever happened between you two, I’m sure he’d much rather see you than me right now.”

Cas looks at him uncertainly, but Sam gives him a gentle push and he moves forward, walking slowly into Dean’s room.  He looks up just slightly at the sound of Cas’ footsteps, and shit – he never could have been prepared for this.

Dean looks awful, positively awful.  Cas has never seen him so pale, and the white color of his skin brings out every needle mark and bruise, and the bags under his eyes, and the fresh scratches that dust his arms and chest.

“Cas,” he remarks, and even his voice sounds terrible.  “Is Sam - ?”

“He’s out in the hall,” Cas says quietly.

“Goddamnit,” Dean says, but it comes out as a whisper.  “I told them not to call him.”  He sighs heavily, and then looks over Cas again, almost as if he’s seeing him for the first time.  “So it wasn’t a dream then?”

Cas’ eyebrows knit together, and his heart pounds a little faster.  “What?”

“You really brought me here?” Dean asks, and Cas nods.  “Shit, I was hoping I imagined that.”

Ignoring the sting from Dean’s comment, Cas pushes forward, asking, “Well who did you think it was?”

“I don’t know – some stranger.  Didn’t think it’d really be you.”

“Why?” Cas asks, and he’s so, so lost.

“Well, you hate me, don’t you?” Dean asks.

Cas closes his eyes, feeling sick.  His head is starting to throb right in time with the mantra ringing in his mind: _it’s all your fault, it’s all your fault, it’s all your fault_.

“Dean, I never said that,” he says quietly.

“You kicked me out,” Dean retorts, “ – of your _life_.  Forgive me for thinking maybe you disliked me.”

The snark and sarcasm in his voice set Cas on edge, and he can’t take it anymore.  Everything’s fallen apart and nothing makes sense, and fuck – Cas just wishes they could rewind the past two days and do them over.  Maybe he’d listen when Dean told him to step away from his bag, or maybe he’d allow Dean a simple explanation.

“Fuck, Dean – I – I didn’t kick you out with the intention of driving you to try and commit suicide.”

Dean starts at that, obviously taken aback.  “Cas, I didn’t – “

“Dean, you don’t have to lie to me,” Cas interrupts.  “You can tell me the truth, okay?  You’re on suicide watch, you know – you can tell me if it’s for good reason.”

“I don’t – “

“I won’t judge you,” Cas says, voice growing softer.  “I couldn’t.  Because four months ago, _I_ tried to kill _myself_.”

Silence follows Cas’ confession, ringing in both of their ears.  A lump settles in Cas’ throat, and he does his best to swallow it back.  Taking a deep breath, he continues.

“When we met, I had just gotten out of the hospital.”

“Cas,” Dean interrupts.  “Cas, you don’t have to tell me this.”

“I do,” Cas insists.  “I owe you an explanation, and you owe me this chance to be honest.  If we’re going to get past this.  If you’re going to get better and I’m going to help you, we need to communicate.  And it’s clear to me that we haven’t been doing much of that at all.”

Dean goes quiet, and Cas takes a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment before he starts up again.

“When we met, I had just gotten out of the hospital.   I was in there for six weeks, and the first two weeks, I was on lockdown. I stayed in one of the padded rooms.  I – I wouldn’t stop trying.  I scratched myself, snuck off and stole sharp objects from different hospital rooms, started collecting up any medication I could get my hands on.  Eventually, I gave up, because I was exhausted, and I knew – the sooner I cooperated, the sooner I could get out, and the sooner I could try to kill myself again, and do it right this time.”

However, once I gave in, I began to change my mind.  I took the medication, and I went to therapy every day for those few weeks, and once I was released, I felt strong enough to get back into the world.  It was hell, but I did it.  And – and I met you.  Then it was like everything was worth it.”

They fall into silence again, and Dean simply stares at Cas, an indescribable look on his face.  He looks shocked, of course, but also sad, and confused. 

“Why?” he asks quietly.  “Why did you do that to yourself?”

Cas takes a shuddering breath, reaching up to wipe at the tears welling in his eyes.  He laughs humorlessly, shaking his head.  “This – this is the explanation I owe you.”  He takes a deep breath before going on.  “When I was thirteen, my father left our family.  My mother had died many years before, and he – well, I didn’t know that there was anything wrong, but one day he packed his bags and left.  My brother, Lucifer, caught him leaving, and they had a huge blowout fight.  In the end, Lucifer wasn’t able to stop him, and my father never returned.

“In his absence, a few my siblings began spiraling.  Now – there were six of us.  Lucifer and Michael were the oldest.  Then Gabriel, then Anna, then me.  Samandriel was the baby of the family, and the one I designated myself to look after.  With my father gone, Michael took it upon himself to raise the rest of us.  However, Lucifer was eighteen, and he argued that he could hold the fort down.  Tensions grew between them in the next few years, and eventually, Michael was next to leave.

“He should have stayed.  Lucifer – Lucifer was always a bit of a troubled kid, especially in high school.  Once he was an adult and balancing between us and community college, things got worse.  Lucifer got heavily into drugs, and things turned dangerous for us kids.  He got rough with Gabriel and Anna, but spared Samandriel and me.  It seemed, almost, that Gabriel took Michael’s place, and he began arguing with Lucifer constantly.”

Cas breaks off for a moment, his voice having been trembling terribly.  He takes a few deep breaths, getting a hold of himself.

“There was one night, where tensions rose to the extreme.  Lucifer was high out of his mind, and he got into a huge fight with Gabriel.  In the end – Lucifer – Lucifer – “  Cas takes another shuddering breath, closing his eyes and focusing hard.  He can feel the panic setting in firmly, beginning to boil at the surface, but he holds on.  He needs to get this out.  “He stabbed Gabriel.  He – he took a knife from the kitchen and he killed him.  After he realized what he had done, he killed himself.  I was the one who found them, and I called the police.”

Cas is crying now, tears coming hard and breath becoming rapidly uneven.  “After that, I – I sunk into a depression.  I constantly blamed myself for not being able to do anything.  I finished high school in a slump, and I went to community college two weeks before I dropped out.  I stayed home then, and Anna took care of me, urging me to talk to someone, to see a therapist, but I never would. 

“Michael came back after Lucifer and Gabriel’s funerals, apologizing endlessly for leaving us.  I was so thankful for his presence – at least for awhile.  Dean, you – you know I’m gay, and I’ve known since I was twelve, but my family didn’t know until I was twenty.  I had met this really great guy, and he pulled me out of my shell.  We were friends for awhile, and then one night, while taking it easy at my place, we decided to become more.  Michael caught us going at it, and he kicked me out.  He was disgusted, and so were Anna and Samandriel.  I left that night and headed here – to Chicago.  I got a job at a gas station, but eventually I quit because I couldn’t deal with the drug life around the place.  It brought back flashbacks, and I couldn’t handle it. 

“I moved to the apartment I have now, and I got a job working as a secretary in a real estate firm.  Over time, I thought I was getting a handle on things, but I never did.  This last year has been absolute hell,” Cas mutters, voice cracking.   “I couldn’t stop feeling like a failure.  All I thought about was how it was my fault that Lucifer and Gabriel were dead.  I couldn’t get Michael’s horrified look out of my face.  I couldn’t shake the burning feeling of disappointment from Anna and Samandriel.  And I – I started to think – what if it was my fault that my father had left?”

“I was a troubled kid, not troubled like Lucifer – but I had problems with anxiety and social interaction.  I couldn’t behave like the other kids at school, and for a few years, I had to spend an hour a day in a special education class for the socially challenged.  At the hospital, my therapist told me it was my mother’s death that prompted it, and because I never got help, the problems continued, but I didn’t know that at the time.  All I felt was worthless, and I wanted to die so badly.  So I tried to kill myself.  I had bought sleeping pills to battle the anxiety at night, but I stopped taking them after awhile, because again – the pills reminded me of what happened with Lucifer and Gabriel.  I had half a bottle left when I decided to end my life, and I took them all in one go.”

“My landlord found me.  I guess I made quite a commotion when I passed out on the bathroom floor.  Someone informed him of a suspicious noise and he came into my apartment.  He figured out what happened quickly, and took me to the hospital.  Any later, I would have succeeded.”

Cas trails off, thinking for a moment.  His head his swimming, his chest and throat tight.  He feels detached from his body, like he’s floating somewhere in space.  For so long, he’s held all of this in, and it might not feel great, admitting all of it, but it does feel like a weight has been lifted.

“So now you know,” he says, forcing a weak, strained smile.  “You know why I reacted the way I did, and I hope you can forgive me.”  His voice cracks on the last two words, and then he’s gone.  All the composure he’s held up falls away, and he’s crying hard, turning away from Dean immediately.  He doesn’t want to see Dean’s reaction, not yet.  He still doesn’t even know how _he_ feels about everything that’s happened.  He’s not ready for Dean to start making judgments and assumptions –

“Cas, wait.”

He hesitates, keeping his back turned.

“Cas, don’t – don’t leave.  Come here.”

For a moment, he entertains the thought of ignoring Dean, of rushing out and escaping the sudden overwhelming feeling that has taken him over.  But he dares to look, glances at Dean to see that he looks nothing but earnest, and Cas moves toward him.

With a huge effort, Dean scoots over, making room for Cas in his bed. 

“Come here,” he repeats, patting the space beside him.

Tentatively, Cas takes a seat, pulling his legs up onto the bed.  Slowly, Dean wraps his arms around Cas’ waist and pulls him closer.  Cas melts into him, turning on his side and resting his head gently on Dean’s shoulder.

“Cas, I’m – I’m so sorry,” Dean starts, voice a whisper.  “I’m sorry any of that happened to you.  I’m sorry it affected you like that, and I’m sorry you felt so badly that you wanted to take your own life.  But I’m glad you’re here, and I’m glad that you’ve given me a second chance despite how uncomfortable my lifestyle makes you.”

“It doesn’t,” Cas says immediately, looking up at him.  “I know you’re not like Lucifer.  He – he made so many bad choices, and I don’t know if he ever thought about fixing things.  Not until it was too late.  But you – I – I know you care about your brother, and about me.”

“I do,” Dean agrees, and he takes a shaky breath.  Tears are filling his eyes too now, and presses his lips tightly together before continuing.   “I don’t know if you’ll believe me, but – when I overdosed – Cas, I wasn’t trying to kill myself.  Maybe it was there at the back of my mind.  Maybe I thought dying would be a good idea, but at the same time – I thought spending my entire savings on a mysterious drug I’d never tried before was a good idea.  I wasn’t in my right mind, Cas.  Not in the slightest.”

“But it was there,” Cas says softly.  “It was somewhere in your subconscious.”

“It was,” Dean agrees, nodding.  “But look – I’m gonna get past this, Cas.  Trust me.  I’m gonna make an effort to really get better, and I won’t allow my own behaviors to trigger you anymore, okay?  I’m gonna make things right between us again.”

Cas smiles – sadly, but sincerely.  “I believe you, Dean,” he says.  “Thank you.”

He pulls himself up, pressing a kiss to Dean’s temple, and foolishly, he feels content.  Dean may have made a promise, but Cas can’t know for sure that he’ll keep it, and that’s where he makes his second mistake.  He shouldn’t be trusting Dean, not yet.  He’s only going to break his heart all over again.


	10. Chapter 10

The withdrawals are torturous – for both Dean and Cas.  In light of the overdose, Dean had been given antidotes for both the drug cocktail, and the excess morphine, but his body is still craving all of the drugs he’d been taking.  They’re using a taper to get him off of morphine, but for the over-the-counter drugs as well as the alcohol, they’re letting him suffer.

Watching Dean suffer, staying with him while he’s in so much obvious pain – it hurts Cas, but he wouldn’t dare leave.  Dean needs him, and he’s more than willing to stay if it helps even the smallest amount with the struggle.

After Dean’s let off the seventy-two hour suicide watch, he stays in the hospital for another week and a half, working through the withdrawals.  What happens after that is his own decision, and both Cas and Sam offer up help and advice.

Seeing Sam again – it’s been hard.  Dean hasn’t seen him in years, and they didn’t necessarily part on good terms.  It’s strange now, to see him so compliant and gentle, much less harsh than he was when they had last spoken.  Dean knows it’s because he still believes Dean tried to kill himself, and it’s unsettling, a little insulting, to say the least.  But Dean tries to get along, to give Sam the benefit of the doubt.  He’s tired of fighting, tired overall really.

It isn’t until Dean’s sixth day that he and Sam actually have a real, mature conversation.

Sam enters Dean’s room, not with a cautious smile, and Dean knows what’s coming.  He shifts his weight in bed, watching his brother nervously.  Sam takes a seat in the recliner next to Dean’s bed, leaning forward and folding his hands together.  Dean waits, but Sam doesn’t say anything.

“Sam,” Dean prompts.  “Seriously – just get on with it.”

Sam looks up, surprised.  “How did you – “

“You look extremely uncomfortable.  Now, come on.”

Sam sighs.  “I don’t know where to start, honestly.”

“Anywhere is fine,” Dean replies, leaning his head back and looking at the ceiling.  He just wants to get this over with.

“Well, I just – I don’t know what _to_ say,” Sam murmurs quietly.  “What to say to make any of this better.”

“You know I didn’t consciously try to kill myself, right?” Dean asks, turning and raising an eyebrow at him.

“’Consciously’ being the key word,” Sam retorts, and Dean feels a surge of guilt.

Sam has a point.  He didn’t even think when he took all those pills, when he injected the last of his morphine, when he bought that drug cocktail from Crowley.  He didn’t think about where it would land him and how it would affect the people around him.  Then again, he never thought about the consequences of his addiction.  It was simply how he survived, living paycheck to paycheck if he could get his hands on something more.

Now he’s landed himself in the hospital with “suicidal ideation” written all over him.  He uprooted Sam from grad school, and Cas has barely said a word since his confession.  They’re both so obviously sad and lost and Dean did this to them.  Once again, all he does is disappoint.

“Dean,” Sam says gently, “you need to get help.”

Dean swallows hard, nodding.  His eyes are prickling.  “I know, Sammy.  I know.”

“And I don’t just mean because of this – because of whatever this was, suicide attempt or not.  You need help with the drugs, Dean, with the addiction.  Dad wouldn’t get help, and his addiction killed him.  You don’t have to go down the same road, you know.”

“I know,” Dean says quietly, looking down into his lap.  His eyebrows lift up involuntarily, and his lips quiver.  The lump in his throat is growing bigger.  “But Sam – I mean – even if I could get better, what – what am I supposed to do with my life?  I’ve got nothing, Sam.  I dropped out of school, and I’m – I don’t have brains like yours.  Maybe I _am_ better off – “

“Don’t say that,” Sam cuts in quickly, voice firm.  “You don’t think Cas showed me your work?  Your writing is _amazing,_ Dean.  I know how successful you’ve been in Chicago.  You could go on to write somewhere big – like _The New York Times_.  You could win a Pulitzer – I’m not kidding.”

Dean’s blushing now, wishing he could believe Sam, but he doesn’t.  He appreciates the sentiment, but he knows the truth.  He’s mediocre at best, and just because the college-age population in Chicago likes his snarky tone doesn’t mean he’s Pulitzer material.

“Besides that, you’ve – you’ve got people that love you, Dean.  People that _need_ you.  Cas loves you, Dean, he really does.  And I know he wants you to get better just as much as I do – more, maybe.  All he wants is for you to feel happy and content with yourself without the drugs and the alcohol, and you can if you try.”

“What if it’s not enough?” Dean asks, and the tears start falling.  “What if I _can’t_ get better, Sam?”

“Well,” Sam says with a shrug, “you won’t know if you don’t try.  And trust me, if you try, you’ll get better, Dean.  I know you will.”  His own eyes have become wet, and he swallows hard before he continues.  “And I’m going to be there for you, Dean.  I promise.  God, I – I’m so sorry, Dean.  I’m so sorry about everything that happened after Dad died.  And I just – I want you to know I never meant any of it.  You’re my big brother, Dean, and I – I love you.  I always will.”

Dean heaves a deep breath, giving Sam a lazy smile through the tears.  “I owe you an apology just as much.  I’m sorry, Sam.  I’m sorry for giving Dad the benefit of the doubt way too many times and letting him treat us the way he did.  I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you more, and I’m sorry for following in his footsteps and disappointing you like this.”

“You’re not disappointing me,” Sam says quickly, and then corrects himself.  “I mean – it’s disappointing to see you in this position, but I understand, Dean.  And you’re going to try to get better, right?”

Dean wipes at his eyes, nodding.

“See?  You’re not disappointing me then, Dean.  You’re making me proud.  And I don’t care what’s happened in the last few years – you’ve always made me proud to call you my big brother.  I’m only disappointed by the addiction because I don’t want you doing this to yourself.  You deserve more.”

“I don’t know about deserving anything,” Dean replies, half-scoffing, “but I’m gonna try for you, Sammy.  I’m gonna try to get better for you and Cas.”

“Good,” Sam says, smiling half-heartedly.

There’s a beat – a small, hesitant beat before Sam hops up and leans over Dean’s bed to pull him into a careful hug.  It’s been so long since Dean’s been in Sam’s arms, but God does he miss it.  The familiar tug of _family_ soothes him, and he closes his eyes, letting his forehead fall against Sam’s shoulder.

.

.

During the rest of Dean’s stay, he and Sam entertain ideas about rehab – what kind of facilities?  How long?  Can Dean even afford it?  He doesn’t tell Cas, though.  He doesn’t want to tell Cas anything until it’s final. 

The biggest complication is that Sam can’t stay in town forever.  He has to get back to school.  Spring break is in three weeks, and he promised to come back then, but for now, he has homework calling for his attention.  In the meantime, Dean will stay with Cas.

“You don’t have a problem with that, do you?” Cas asks Sam as they sit around Dean’s bed.

“No – God, no,” Sam replies.  “Please – keep an eye on him for me.”

Dean looks between them, glaring.  “Stop talking about me like I’m not in the room.”

“We’re not,” Sam says defensively, half-laughing.  “We’re just having a conversation.  I think it’s kind of important for us to know what’s going on with you, and for _me_ to know that you’re going to be in the care of someone I trust.”

Cas ducks his head at that, rubbing his neck.

“I’m going to be fine, Sam,” Dean mutters.  “Stop worrying.”

It’s Sam’s turn to glare, and he adds a scoff.  “Yeah, it’s not like we’re all gathered in your hospital room.”

“You know what I mean,” Dean grumbles.  “I’m not going to do anything else ridiculously stupid.  I’m already going through withdrawals.  If Cas just keeps drugs away from me, I’ll be good until I can check into rehab.”

“Well, we can only hope it’ll go that smoothly,” Sam sighs. 

He exchanges a look with Cas, and Dean feels the light-hearted feeling leave him.  He keeps forgetting that he probably shouldn’t be joking about this.  Humor has always been his best defense, but there’s no reason he should be defending himself anymore.  Cas and Sam want him to open up; they don’t want him closing himself off again, and he thinks he owes it to them to take this as seriously as he can.  He can’t put them through anymore turmoil than they’ve already experienced.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly.  “You know I’ll try not to fall off the wagon again before you come back, Sam.  _And_ I’ll be looking around, trying to find someplace to go.  Don’t worry, okay?”

Sam doesn’t reply, just presses his lips together in a thin line, attempting to smile.  Dean knows he’ll worry no matter what, but he wishes Sam wouldn’t.  It puts pressure on Dean, pressure that he doesn’t need on top of all of this guilt and anxiety.

Thankfully, Sam leaves that night, with a few last instructions for Cas and a hug for Dean.  The next morning, Dean is checked out of the hospital, and Cas takes him back to his apartment.  When Dean steps through the front door, he sees that Cas has made up the couch for him.  He smiles as he drops his bag to the floor and sinks into the cushions.

“Hmmm,” he hums.  “Come join me, Cas.”

Cas smirks, looking at down at him.  After a moment’s hesitation, he settles next to Dean, resting his head against cushion so that he’s looking right at Dean’s face.  Dean scoots forward, settling himself almost entirely in Cas’ lap.

“Ugh – I’ve missed this,” Dean sighs.  “It’s not the same in that hard hospital bed.”

Cas is quiet as he begins to run his fingers through Dean’s hair, stroking his hairline.  “It’s not,” he agrees after awhile.  He’s silent for another long minute, and when he speaks next, his voice is barely whisper.  “Dean, I’m so glad you’re okay.”

Dean hums again, smiling against Cas’ chest.  “I am too.  And thank you – for letting me stay here, for giving me another chance – for everything.”

.

.

It doesn’t take long for Dean to fall asleep, nestled against Cas’ chest.  It’s been a long, stressful week, and Cas is beyond thankful for this peaceful moment, beyond thankful to have Dean alive and breathing on top of him.  The shock and the fear have been lingering, striking him throughout the past two weeks at random intervals.  They’ve lessened now that Dean’s almost back to health, safe and sound in Cas’ own apartment.  Cas knows they’ve still got work to do – he’s discussed as much with Sam – but for now this is more than enough, and Cas will gladly take it.

It’s been hard, honestly.  It’s difficult trying to be there for Dean when Cas can feel himself getting bad again.  His medication isn’t doing the trick anymore, and it’s making Cas anxious.  Still, he doesn’t have the luxury to worry about himself.  Dean’s in a state much worse off, and he needs Cas to be there for him, to be focused on helping him, and Cas will gladly comply.  He’ll worry about himself later.  (Or so he keeps telling himself).

Dean keeps telling Cas that he’s fine, but Cas knows better.  The withdrawals have been hell.  Dean can barely eat, and he’s been sleeping most of the days away.  Cas also knows the empty feeling that’s gripping him after the realization starts to set in that Dean tried to take his own life, conscious or not.  Cas knows that after he stopped trying to finish the job, he felt terrible.  To hit that low, to feel like there’s no way it can get any worse, to be there at rock bottom – it’s awful.  Cas knows that Dean’s not feeling any better about himself than the moment he took all of those drugs; he’s probably feeling worse, actually.

Cas just wishes there was something he could do, but he knows better than anyone there’s no magic fix to this.  He can’t change Dean’s mind.  He can’t force Dean to think in ways that his mind won’t allow him.  Dean has to take all of these steps for himself, and even if he makes it past this, if he gets over the suicide attempt, if he sobers up completely, there’s still that lingering experience.  There’s still the knowledge that all of this happened, and that Dean could relapse at any moment.  It’s not a comforting thought.

Cas heaves a sigh, looking down at Dean.  He’s completely passed out, peaceful in his sleep.  There’s no pain or worry in the lines of his face, and it’s moments like these that Cas treasures.  He leans forward, pressing a soft kiss to Dean’s forehead. 

Carefully, slowly, Cas pulls himself out from underneath Dean.  He presses a pillow underneath Dean’s head instead.  He grabs the blanket draped over the arm of the couch and pulls it over Dean, still careful not to wake him.  Dean’s breath hitches slightly as Cas steps back, but he continues to sleep on, and Cas can’t help but smile.

Leaving Dean to his sleep, Cas makes his way into the kitchen.  The morning is turning into afternoon now, and Cas thinks he should cook some kind of brunch.  If he’s lucky, Dean will feel well enough to eat when he wakes up.

Cas switches on the radio, turning it back to the indie station he prefers and gets to work, being as quiet as he can.  It starts raining shortly after Cas begins to prepare the food, and it the sound of it mingles with the music from the radio.  That, coupled with the warm blast of heat, and Dean lying asleep on the couch, makes Cas feel like for the first time in months, he’s home.  Forget the events of the past few days, Cas is happy and content and _home_.

.

.

Dean wakes just an hour later, no doubt triggered by the smell of the food cooking.  He pushes himself up with a yawn and starts stretching, trying to wake up fully.  He turns to look at Cas, revealing his outrageous bed-head and crinkle-marked cheeks. 

“How was your nap?” Cas asks with a smirk.

“Fine,” Dean replies, scratching at his shoulder blade.  “What are you cooking?”

“Always with the food,” Cas mutters.  “Well, I was going to make brunch, but I decided on a real lunch instead.  I made pasta, salad, and bread.”

“I’ll take a rain check on the salad,” Dean says, getting to his feet.  He sways a little, but catches himself. 

Cas watches him nervously, heart thumping a little faster than usual in his chest.  “Are you okay?” he ask.

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean replies.  “Just – just a little dizzy.”

“Do you have a headache?” Cas asks. 

“Yeah, but it’s fine,” Dean reassures.  “I mean – it’s not like I can just take a few Tylenol anyway.  I’d need the whole bottle.”

“Well, you could try lying down again,” Cas suggests.  “I could get you a cold rag.”

“No – it’s okay.  Honestly, Cas, I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?” Cas asks, biting his lip.

“I’m sure,” Dean says, sounding half exasperated, half amused. 

He walks around the couch, making his way over to the bar where he pulls himself up onto his usual stool.  Cas places a plate in front of him, and Cas doesn’t miss the small, pained look he gives it before scooting forward a little.

“You don’t have to eat if you don’t want to,” Cas says quietly.  “I understand if you feel sick.”

“No, no – it’s manageable,” Dean says firmly.  “And I need to eat.  I haven’t eaten since yesterday morning.”

“Well, I can make you something lighter if you – “

“ _Cas_ ,” Dean says loudly, eyes closed in frustration.  “Please, please stop fussing over me.  I’m fine.  Or – I’ll be fine.  I know you might not believe it, but I can take care of myself.”

Cas freezes, faltering a little as he tries to speak.  His nerves are on edge, and he presses his lips together for a moment.  The last thing he wanted to do was upset Dean; he just wanted to make his homecoming as comfortable and as smooth as possible.

“Hey,” Dean says, voice soft.  “Cas, look at me – I’m not angry.  I’m touched, really.  I just don’t want you to worry too much, alright?  I want to make this easier on you.”  He sighs, looking down at his food.  “I don’t – I don’t deserve all of this, but I appreciate it.  I just – I don’t need any more than what you’ve given me, okay?”

Cas lets out the breath he’d been holding in, nodding.  He disagrees with Dean, but he won’t voice it.  He thinks Dean deserves so much more than what he’s accepting, but Cas doesn’t want to start any fights right now.  He just wants to make it through the day, through the next few weeks until Sam comes back and Dean can really start to get better.

Cas grabs his own food and hops up onto the stool next to Dean.  He looks down at his plate only to realize his appetite has disappeared, his stomach twisting with anxiety.  He’s starting to notice the ache in his bones, the pull of exhaustion.   Maybe he should take a nap himself, and he would if his brain wasn’t working a million times a minute, trying to work through the heap of stress that’s taken over his life.

They sit in silence while they eat – or, really, nibble at their food and push the rest around the plate.  Eventually, Cas approaches the subject that’s been eating at him since they left the hospital – where are they going to go from here?

“Dean?” he asks.

“Yeah?”

“What – what exactly do you plan to do about rehab?” Cas asks, voice quiet.

Dean shrugs, rubbing the back of his neck.  “I – I was just thinking someplace I could go to a few hours day.  Somewhere that isn’t too expensive and won’t require me to live there.  I don’t think I’m ready for the kind of commitment.”  He chuckles awkwardly, and Cas wishes he could laugh at all.

“That’s good,” Cas replies.  “I mean – as long as you can get help, right?”

“Yeah,” Dean agrees.  “I’ve looked into a few places, but I’m gonna wait until Sam comes back so we can all make a decision together.”

Cas nods.  “We’ll find you some place, Dean.  Some place with a good staff and a manageable program and a safe environment.”

Dean doesn’t say anything more, just nods in return.  He’s distracted, engrossed by something else.  Cas knows he’s in pain, knows he won’t admit it.  He sighs heavily, pushing his food way and pulling his coffee forward.  If he’s going to keep pushing through, he needs caffeine.


	11. Chapter 11

Cas is fast asleep, out like a light in his room.  Dean backs out into the hall again, shutting the door behind him.  He heads into the bathroom, heart racing.  He knows he shouldn’t be doing this – he promised Sam – but _fuck_ , he feels so terrible.  He feels like he’s turned inside out and his brain is being deep fried.  He just needs _something_.

Dean flicks the light on as he steps inside, and immediately regrets it.  The light sends a stab of pain through his head, leaving him grasping the counter for dear life, desperate to keep himself upright.  After the wave of dizziness passes, he dares to lift his head up.  His hands shake as he reaches for the medicine cabinet as he prays for something – _anything_ – to be in there.  Advil, Tylenol, Ibuprofen – he doesn’t care.  He just needs painkillers.  Lots of them.

When Dean gets a look inside, his heart sinks.  There are no painkillers.  Only one bottle of pills sits on the bottom shelf, but Dean doubts that the medication will do anything.  He reaches for it anyway, turning around the bottle so he can read the label.

This time, it feels like all of his organs are sinking.  His stomach gives a lurch as he reads:

MILTON, CASTIEL

TAKE ONE BY MOUTH DAILY

ZOLOFT 60MG

Dean sets the bottle back and reaches a hand up to his mouth, pressing his fingers against his lips.  He feels like he’s going to throw up, and the dizziness starts to turn him ‘round again.  Reality’s just hit him like a bullet, and he has no idea how to react.

God, how can he be so stupid?  Cas told him just a week and a half ago about his own journey, his own suicide attempt, his own struggle with depression. 

Dean’s intruding.

He’s intruding and he’s making things worse for Castiel.  Dean can’t keep expecting this.   He can’t expect Cas to keep throwing his own struggles to the side to help Dean.  Cas needs to heal too, and Dean’s not helping him by being here and making Cas take care of him.  Dean’s a big boy, and it’s high time he’s acted like one.

Dean takes a seat on the toilet, putting his face in his hands.  He’s noticed little things – noticed how tired Cas looks, noticed the darkness in his eyes, noticed the way he’s already losing weight.  He’s fighting a losing battle, and Dean’s the parasite taking everything away from him.

Dean runs a hand over his mouth and heaves a deep breath.  It’s just one thing after another, isn’t it?  All he does is take, take, take, and he never pays anything in return.  It’s no secret why Sam ditched his sorry ass, and Dean wouldn’t blame Castiel if he did the same.  Dean’s not a good person.  Not a good brother or a friend or a boyfriend, and that’s really starting to become clear to him now.

Tears are prickling at Dean’s eyes, but he forces them back.  It’s time to stop feeling sorry for himself.  For fuck’s sake – Castiel has it so much worse off. 

A) His suicide attempt was fully conscious and intentional.  He hated himself so strongly and thoroughly that he sought to escape it through death.  The pain and the worthless feeling were that strong, that intense, and Castiel knew what he was doing when he took those pills.

Dean was high out of his mind and made a stupid move that resulted in a near-death experience.  That doesn’t mean a thing.

And –

B) Castiel didn’t choose any of this.  He didn’t choose for his father to leave their family, or his brother to go off the deep end, or his remaining family to turn on him for the sexuality he was born with.  He didn’t choose to sink into a deep depression, or to start having suicidal thoughts.  Even the suicide attempt – that was inevitable in his condition.  Had Cas been able to think in his right mind, he wouldn’t have done it, but the depression made it impossible.

Dean chose to do drugs.  He chose to become an alcoholic and an addict.  He chose to react recklessly to Cas dumping him.  All of that’s on him.

Body trembling, Dean digs the heel of his palm into his eyes.  He grinds his teeth together, trying to quell some of the self-hatred that’s burning fiercely inside of him.  He can’t stand it – can’t stand the behavior he’s adapted and the actions he’s taken and the person he’s become.  He needs to make changes, and he needs to make them now.

A plan starts blooming in his mind, and Dean stands up.  He leaves the bathroom, heading back into the living room where his things are.  He curses under his breath once he remembers he left a few clothing items back in Cas’ room.  He slings his bag over his shoulder and tiptoes down the hall and into Cas’ room. 

Once inside, he’s careful as he picks up his clothes off the floor.  When he stands back up, he feels his chest go tight.  His heart swells inside him as he looks around, looking at the room for what might be the last time – certainly the last for a long while. 

His eyes are drawn to the pictures on Cas’ wall, and they fall down to spot a stack of some resting on his nightstand.  He pads forward, reaching out to grab them.  They’re backup copies, Dean notices, and in a split second, he decides to keep some, tucking them into his bag. 

With a lump lodging in his throat, Dean steps up to the side of Cas’ bed.  He stares at Cas for a moment before he leans down and presses a soft kiss to Cas’ temple.  He thinks about waking Cas, but that’s not really an option.  Maybe he’ll leave a message for him at the café sometime soon.

Dean turns, making his way to do the door.  His hand is just reaching the door knob when Cas’ voice breaks through the silence.

“Dean?”

He curses internally before turning back around, looking to Cas. 

He’s sitting up in bed, rubbing at his eyes and looking thoroughly confused.  He lets out a yawn and then stares at Dean curiously.

“Dean, what’s going on?”

He doesn’t beat around the bush.  He can’t afford to.

“I’m leaving, Cas,” he says honestly, strongly.

It takes Cas a moment to process what Dean’s said, and even then, he still doesn’t get it.  “What?  What do you mean, you’re leaving?”

Dean bites his lip, taking a small step forward.  “I’m leaving, Cas.  I’m not staying with you anymore.  I have to go.”

“Wait – why?” Cas asks, and the panic is visibly settling into him.

“Because,” Dean sighs heavily.  “Because I can’t subject you to this anymore.  You shouldn’t be taking care of me.  I should be taking care of myself, and you should be taking care of _yourself_.”

“Dean, I – I don’t understand,” Cas says nervously.  “What’s the problem?  Why can’t I take care of you?  It’s fine – it’s what I want.”

“It’s not what I want,” Dean replies.  “You can’t do this, Cas.  You’re – you’re still healing.  You need to focus on that – not me.”

“Dean, you’re not making any sense,” Cas says, voice shaking.  “Please – what happened?  What’s going on?”

Dean pivots around, turning on his heel.  He runs a hand over his face, trying to find the right words to say.  The lump in his throat is making it extremely difficult for him to talk, and he needs to get this out, needs to make Cas understand.

“Cas, I – I went into the bathroom earlier, looking for painkillers.  I’m cracking, alright?  But I couldn’t find any.  You hid them, or didn’t have any, or whatever, but I – I saw your anti-depressants, Cas, and I realized that I can’t keep doing this to you.  You need to heal before you take care of me.”

“I’m healing just fine,” Cas replies defensively.  “Dean, I’m fine – “

“You’re not,” Dean argues, voice growing louder.  He takes another step forward, squaring his shoulders.  “Don’t think I can’t see it.  Don’t think I don’t notice how sad you look all the time.  Don’t think I don’t notice how exhausted you are, how you’re constantly playing with your hands and rubbing at your wrists.  You have scars there, Cas, I’ve seen them.  You’re going to relapse.  You’re going to hurt yourself, and I’m not going to let that happen because you’re taking care of me instead of yourself.”

“Dean, please – please stop,” Cas says, voice almost a whisper.  He shifts out from underneath the cover and stands up tentatively.

“I’m not going to,” Dean replies.  “It’s – it’s not good for me to be around here.  You have your own problems; you don’t need mine.”

“But where are you going?” Cas asks.  “If you think I’m going to let you go out on your own – “

“I’m going to a clinic downtown,” Dean interrupts.  “I’m checking myself into a full-time rehab session.  You’ll be fine without me, Cas.  Trust me.  You’ll be better off, actually.”

Cas stares at him, breathing heavily for a moment before he speaks again.  “Wait – Dean?  You’re not – you’ll come back, right?”

Dean shifts his weight, hanging his head.  “I don’t know, Cas.”

“No, no, no,” Cas says, shaking his head, and Dean knows he’s crying, though it’s hard to see in the darkness.  “Dean, don’t say that.  You can’t – you can’t leave for good.  You can’t – “

“I can,” Dean says sadly.  “I’m not saying I will, but Cas – I’m – I’m a horrible influence on you.  I’m only causing you more stress and more anxiety.  How many flashbacks have you had in the past two days, and don’t lie to me.  It’s a lot, right?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Cas replies simply.

“Of course it matters,” Dean retorts.  “Cas, you thought you drove me to suicide – how do you think I would feel if you relapsed, if you seriously hurt yourself and it was all my fault?  I’m not letting that happen.  I’m going away, and you’re going to take the opportunity to get any help you need and get better.”

“But what about us?” Cas asks.

“If we’re really meant to be with each other, it will happen.  But for now – I need to go.  I can’t be with you.”

Dean makes to leave, but Cas hurries forward, catching him by the elbow.  “Wait – Dean, please,” he begs, and he’s fighting hard through tears.  “Please, don’t go.  Don’t go without promising me we’ll be together.”

“I can’t do that.”

Cas clenches his teeth together, the tears coming faster.  “Yes, you can – Dean, please.  You’re not doing me a favor by cutting me off.  You’re – you’re making things worse.  _Please_.”

“Cas, maybe you can’t see it right now,” Dean sighs, “but I can.  This relationship is _killing_ you.  My addiction is killing you.  You’re heading right back down that path, and you need to take care of yourself.  You need to get better help.  I’m not helping you.”

“Dean – “

“Look, I know you can’t afford a therapist, but I can.  I have money left saved up, and I’ve left it on your bar counter.  I want you to take that and find a therapist you’re comfortable with.  Talk to them, do whatever you need to get better.  I’m asking that of you, Cas.  That’s it.  Please.”

“I can’t promise that if you don’t promise to return.”

Dean lets out a noise of frustration.  “I can’t promise anything, Cas.  I’m sorry.  I have to go now, and like I said – if it’s meant to happen, it will.”

He turns again, walking more swiftly to the door.  Cas follows after him, spluttering and crying.  Dean ignores him, slipping into his shoes quickly and hurrying to the front door.

“Dean,” Cas calls.  “Dean, please – please don’t do this.  _Dean!_ ”

But he’s gone, dashing through the hallway and down the stairs.  He exits the building, and immediately feels his face crumble.  He can’t hold back his own tears anymore, and he lets them flow freely, keeping himself in check only by the knowledge that hopefully, Cas will get some better professional help now that Dean’s out of his life.

Or at least, Dean hopes he will.

.

.

Cas is on his knees, and the room is spinning violently around him.  He still doesn’t have a grasp on what’s just happened.  He feels like he’s just been punched in the gut, because it almost seems like no matter what, he’s not allowed to have Dean.  He apologized, he made amends, he offered care, and it still wasn’t enough to keep Dean close to him.

And really, Cas knew this would happen.  He expected it.  No one he loves ever stays with him – why should Dean be any exception?  Whether it was Cas pushing him away, or Dean finding his own reason to go, it was always inevitable.

Cas lets the room spin for a long while, and eventually, he finds the strength to pick himself up off the floor.  It’s still early morning, and with a heavy sigh, he drags himself back to his bedroom.  He just wants to sleep, wants to dream this all away.  Maybe if he’s lucky, he’ll wake up and Dean will have returned – or better yet, he’ll wake up the morning of their anniversary and none of this would have ever happened, never _will_ happen.

But Cas knows he’s not lucky.  Everything has fallen apart, and no matter what he does, he just can’t piece it all back together.  Too much has been broken, and Cas has no idea how to even attempt to start fixing it.

He stumbles into his room, reaching up and sliding a hand into his hair, pulling hard.  He clenches his jaw together, feeling the tension that builds in his teeth.  Tears are coming again, but he tries hard to push them back.  Crying won’t do anything.

Cas throws himself forward into his bed, climbing on top of the blankets.  He rolls over onto his back and stares at the ceiling, still gripping his hair. 

As he lies there, his eyes move towards the pictures tacked up above his bed.  His heart aches as the memories flood his mind.  That was the last day he and Dean were happy together, and a burning sensation fills his gut as he realizes he doesn’t want to remember it anymore.  He wants to forget, wants to push it all from his mind.

And suddenly, his jumping up, standing unbalanced on top of his mattress.  His hands are flying as he reaches in front of himself, grabbing the photographs and tearing them from the wall.  Some rip, the tape too strong, but he doesn’t care.  He lets them rip, then deliberately tries to make them rip.  He doesn’t want to see them anymore, wants them gone – gone, gone, gone.  Out of sight, out of mind. 

Minutes pass in what feels like seconds, and Cas is left there, breathing heavily as torn photographs are left scattered around him.  They dot the sheets, the pillows, the floor, the nightstand, each piece matching a part of Cas’ broken heart. 

Cas looks slowly back to the wall, and he’s startled to find one picture left.  His hand trembles as he reaches for it and plucks it gently from the wall.  The tears prickle his eyes with a vengeance, but the anger inside of him counters them.  Cas holds the photograph carefully in his hand, bringing it closer to him.  A chill goes up his spine as he takes in the fact that out of all of his pictures, this is the one left intact.

The candid of Dean.

The candid where’s he’s smiling and happy and blissfully in love with the photographer who took the picture.

Cas wants to vomit, wants to throw up his insides until there’s nothing left.  It feels cruel, looking at this picture, having it mock him and kick him while he’s down.  There won’t be any more days like this, no more photographs to go with this one, and Cas feels a surge of resentment as he continues to stare at it.

He wants it gone – just like the others.  But not ripped up, not capable of being put back together.  He wants it to disappear completely, every trace of that blissful moment forever in the past where Cas can’t reach it.

He hopes down from his bed, racing across his apartment.  He skids to a halt in the kitchen and then begins rifling through his drawers, feeling increasingly uneasy until he finds what he needs.  In the fifth drawer, he finds a lighter, and he pulls it out quickly.  Holding out the picture, he turns the lighter on, and then slowly, smoothly, he moves the flame towards the edge of the photograph.  It catches on fire quickly, eating up the right half. 

Cas drops the photograph in the sink, watching with some sick, twisted pleasure as the flames eat up the capture of Dean.  Ashes replace the happy shot, and then it’s gone completely, and Cas turns on the faucet, killing the flame and filling the sink with smoke.

He’s still breathing heavily, still fighting off the sobs that threaten to engulf him.  Another minute passes, and the excitement melts away.  In the end, Cas still feels empty, still feels like nothing but a failure.

He sinks to the ground, pressing his back against the cupboard.  He can’t hold them back anymore, and the tears start coming, slow and steady.  His head aches and he feels horribly dizzy, but he can’t find the strength to care.

He feels so disgusting, so hopeless and unworthy.  He craves desperately to be punished.  The self-hatred burns in his stomach, and he wants to rush into the bathroom and stick two fingers down his throat.  He wants to throw up – as if doing so would rid him of all the bad things swirling around inside of him.  He wants to grab a knife, wants to drive it through his skin (or his heart), watch the tainted part of him bleed out.  He wants to down a handful of his anti-depressants, just enough to make him sleep for days.  Maybe while he’s out, he can breathe his demons out from his lungs.

Cas doesn’t do any of these things.

Instead, he grabs the lighter again.  He flips it on, watches the flame flicker in front of his face.  And before he recognizes what he’s doing, he’s holding up the lighter to the inside of his arm.  The fire grabs a hold of his skin, dancing across the surface.  Maybe he can’t bleed or breathe or push the awful parts out of himself, but he can try to burn them.

He keeps the flame moving and destroying until the blood runs through his skin, and the top of his arm is charred black and red.  When he’s satisfied, he puts the flame out and stupidly, runs the burns under cool water.  It doesn’t help, only seems to make things worse, but Cas doesn’t care.

A sense of relief has fallen over him, and he feels content enough to breathe easily.  When he’s finished, he collapses to the floor again, and the shock of the burns pulls him into unconsciousness.

.

.

An uneasy feeling has fallen over Dean, and he begins to walk faster as he heads into the library.  A part of him doesn’t trust Cas, and he’s worried.  He knows that he can’t be there for him right now, but someone should be, and that’s why Dean’s really, really grateful Cas told him his entirely life story – because now he has something to work off of.

Dean settles himself in the back of the library and logs into one of the computers.  His fingers tap anxiously against the table as the internet loads, pulling him up to Yellow Pages.  He takes a deep breath before he types in the name and hits _Search_.

As of today, there are three Anna Milton’s in the Midwest, but only one lives in Illinois, in a town called Pontiac.  Dean clicks on the link, once again extremely grateful when a phone number pops up.  Quickly, he scribbles down the number on a piece of paper.  After logging off the computer, he hurries outside, rounding the counter and jogging to where he knows the payphones are situated.  He puts in the correct amount of change, dials the number he wrote down, and then waits.

Anna doesn’t answer until the third time he tries, picking up on the fourth ring.

“Hello?”

“Is this Anna Milton?” Dean asks.

“Yes, and who’s asking?”  She sounds suspicious, and a little irritated.

Dean heaves a deep breath, hoping she’ll be compliant.  “My name’s Dean Winchester.  I’m calling because I’m a friend of Cas’.”

“Cas?” she asks, voice suddenly much quieter.  “You – you mean as in . . . Castiel?”

“Anna, when was the last time you spoke to your brother?”


	12. Chapter 12

The days after Dean’s departure are still a blur.   Cas doesn’t know exactly what he did, and he doesn’t think he’ll ever want to.  He only remembers what happened in small patches, moments that stand out from the rest, deliberately calling his attention.

He remembers burning himself.  He remembers passing out.  He remembers waking up and feeling dizzy, dehydrated, and like he was still on fire.  He’d choked down a drink of water and then relocated to the couch, falling asleep instantly.

The next thing he remembers is a bit bigger.

He’s still sleeping – uncomfortably, restlessly.  And the next thing he knows, someone’s kicking his door open.  He’s peering through the darkness, trying to make any sense of what’s happening.  He hears a voice, and it rings a memory, something far off and distant.  A figure approaches, bending down in front of him, and he still can’t see.

“Cas?  Cas, can you hear – oh, God.  Shit.  Shit – what’ve you done?”

There’s a rustling sound, and then hands are gripping his wrists, tugging at them.

“Cas, come on.  Let me see your arms.”

He allows his arms to be pulled out from underneath him, turning onto his back.  The female voice soothes him as he lies there, listening.

“Oh, God.  Cas, these – are these burns?  Goddamnit.  They’re infected.  They’re terribly infected.”

He feels himself coming to now, hanging onto that information.  Infected is a bad thing.  He should probably do something about it. 

As he comes to consciousness, other things start coming back to him, and he begins to recall where he got these burns, why he got them, what prompted the whole situation.  He starts to fuss, feeling a weight press down on his chest.

“Cas, what’s wrong?”

“Dean.  Dean – he’s – he’s gone, and I – oh, God, I – “

“Cas?”

His vision starts to focus, and he gets a glimpse of the person in front of him, still holding his wrists.  At first, he’s shocked.  The breath is knocked right out of him, and he feels his heart skip a few beats.  His head spins more violently, and he thinks he must be dreaming.  There’s no other explanation.

But then it starts to sink in slightly, and he’s left worrying.  Why is she here?  What must she be thinking?  How much does she know?  He decides he doesn’t care.  All he knows is that now he’s got one more person to disappoint.  The self-loathing comes back with a vengeance, and he struggles against her grip.

“Please – Anna, please.  Tell me you’ve come here to kill me.  Anna, please.”

“Kill you?” she asks, both horrified and concerned.  “Cas, why would I - ?”

“Anna, I can’t take it anymore,” Cas breathes, fighting through more sobs.  “Dean’s gone, and now you’re back, and I – I can’t deal with all of this.  Please, just kill me.  Let me die.”

“Cas, calm down,” Anna pleads, voice trembling.  “We need to get you to the hospital.  These burns – they’re infected – “

“Let them be,” Cas groans.  “Let the infection kill me.  Please.”

He starts panicking then, thrashing around and wishing the burns would’ve done some fatal damage.  He blacks out soon after, and that’s the end of that memory.

After that, Cas remembers waking up in the hospital, strapped to the bed with oxygen shoved up his nose.  He groans as his eyelids flutter open, severely disappointed that he survived another blackout.  Anna’s hovering over him again, her touch gentle as she presses her fingers against his face, feeling his temperature.

“How are you feeling, Cassy?”

The old nickname makes him feel both nauseous and nostalgic.

“Terrible.”

“I wouldn’t expect any less, given the fact this is your second stay here in what – five months, I think the doctors told me?”

Cas feels his stomach lurch then, and he knows he’s in for a long, serious lecture.  There’s so much Anna doesn’t know, and Cas doesn’t think he’s ready to discuss it.  He expects to be facing a lot of disappointment and disgust from her, and he really doesn’t need any more reason to hate himself.  Still, a part of him feels a sense of bitter resentment that Anna didn’t know these facts already.

Thankfully, she agrees with the last bit, and that makes for a much less stressful conversation than Cas had anticipated.  She waits to approach the subject, waits until the burns have healed enough, and the doctors have determined that his mind is strong enough to talk about this.

(However, they do agree that his mind isn’t strong enough for much more, and he’s informed they’re debating whether or not to put him back in the psych ward).

“Why didn’t you ever contact me?” Anna asks at the start, and Cas thinks she has a lot of nerve.

“You pushed me away,” he retorts incredulously.  “Michael kicked me out and you and Samandriel did nothing.  You let him.  You were just as disgusted as he was to have a gay brother – don’t lie.”

 

Anna’s eyes are already wet, filled with guilt and sorrow.  “Cas,” she says quietly, shaking her head.  “I – I know you might not believe me, but Michael was the only one who was ever disgusted.  Samandriel, he – he idolized you, Cas, and he never stopped.  He was devastated when you left.”

Cas snorts. _“Left.”_   Like he had any choice.

“And I – I’d known for awhile, Cas – years.  I’d known for sure since you were sixteen, and I had hunches as young as twelve.  I was never disgusted with you.  I was disgusted with Michael for the way he treated you.”

Cas feels dizzy all over again, and he closes his eyes as he tries to process this information.  All along, he believed himself to be the disgrace of the family – _above_ Lucifer.

“Anna, why – why didn’t you say anything?” he asks, astounded.  “Why did you let him kick me out?  Why didn’t you try to find me, or contact me – anything?  You just let me leave.  You let me head off to Chicago without so much as a plea.”

“I know,” Anna says softly, and she’s crying.  “Cas, I know, and I’ve regretted letting you go ever since it happened.”

“Anna, I – I tried to kill myself,” Cas says, almost breathless.  “I tried to commit suicide because I couldn’t stop thinking about how much I let you and Samandriel and Michael down.  I _hated_ myself, Anna.  I was right there with Michael.”

“I know,” Anna says again.  Her whole body shakes as she scoots forward, grabbing one of Cas’ hands and holding it tight in both of hers.  “And I’m so sorry, Cas – I’m _so sorry_.  It’s just – too much time passed, and I never knew what I could say to make anything better.”

“You could have told me the truth,” Cas cuts in.  “It would have saved a lot of sleepless nights, a few scars.”

Anna hangs her head, ducking to kiss Cas’ hand.  She stays like that for a minute before she lifts up her head again and wipes shakily at her eyes.

“Cas, I still don’t know what to say,” she says honestly, “except that I’m so terribly sorry, and that I love you.  And I’m so ashamed of myself for letting Michael do that to you.  I knew you were having a rough time, I knew you needed your family, and I did nothing.  You’re not the only person who hates yourself, Cas.  I just – I – God, I’m so sorry.”

She starts sobbing, and at the sight of it, Cas’ anger dissipates.  She’s being honest, baring herself in front of him, and for God’s sake – she’s his _sister_.  He can’t find it within himself to hold this grudge, not when she’s finally here, and he needs her so badly.

“Anna,” he says quietly, giving her hand a squeeze.  “Anna, look at me.”

She does, and her eyes are ridiculously red.

“Anna, look – I – I didn’t mean to guilt-trip you,” Cas says quietly.  “It’s just – it’s been hard these past few years – being alone, dealing with this awful depression.  And you know, I – I thought I had finally found support in Dean, but evidently I don’t matter enough to have him stick around – “

Anna gives his hand a squeeze now, looking right in his eyes.  She sniffles before she says, “Don’t say that.”

“It’s true,” Cas says defensively. 

“No, it’s not,” Anna says firmly.  “Haven’t you been wondering how I found you?”

Cas looks up, eyebrows knitting together.  Honestly, he hadn’t given it more than a single thought.

“Dean called me,” Anna continues, punctuating each word carefully.

Cas is only further confused.  “How – how did he get your number?”

Anna shrugs.  “He said you mentioned my name, and he looked me up on Yellow Pages.  He called me, didn’t give any details.  Just said you were having a hard time and needed somebody to be there for you.  He was angry with me, Cas – so, so angry.  He completely went off, ranting about what kind of siblings just ditched their brother after the traumatic events he went through.  He didn’t tell me anything else about you, really  – just reiterated on what he knew before you left.  He told me about his own recent troubles, and I just – I knew you wouldn’t be taking any of it well given Lucifer’s history.  So I drove here immediately.”

Cas looks away from her, and he feels his breathing pick up slightly.  He doesn’t want to believe, doesn’t want to think that Dean went to all that trouble to contact his sister, to reunite the two of them after six years.  Six years of separation and Dean’s the one to bring them together.  Cas feels a surge of gratitude go through him, swelling in his heart, and his longing for Dean changes from one full of tainted resentment, to one of pure appreciation and love.

“He really cares about you, Cas,” Anna says quietly.  “That much is obvious.  I don’t know how you feel about him – especially with the addiction.  I don’t know if you hate him right now, or just miss him – “

“I love him,” Cas interrupts.  “I don’t care what he’s done – I love him.  And I miss him terribly.”

“Well, I’m almost one-hundred percent certain he feels the same way, Cas.  Don’t give up on him.”

Cas sighs heavily, shaking his head.  “I won’t.  And I won’t give up on you either, Anna,” he adds.  “As long as you haven’t given up on me.”

“I haven’t,” Anna assures.  “I never will.  I’m – I’m going to make this up to you, Cas.  I know I’ve been missing from your life, but I’m here now, and I’m not going anywhere.  I promise you.  We’re going to work through this.  I’m going to help you get better.  I’ll – I’ll do whatever you need, Cas, I promise.”

“Right now,” Cas says, “I think I just want some rest.”

He laughs slightly, and Anna does too.

“I’ll let you rest after this,” she says, pulling him into a quick, gentle hug. 

Cas tucks his face into her neck, breathing deeply.  _Six years_ , he thinks.  Six years, and Anna’s arms still feel like the home he left so long ago.

.

.

Cas ends up staying in the psych ward.  For three weeks, they work through the latest traumatic events and then go backward, determining why the last hospital stay barely helped at all.  It turns out that Zoloft just isn’t his anti-depressant.  They switch him to Lexapro, and Cas notices a change immediately.

He starts going to therapy as well, and really tries to open up.  At the end of the three weeks, he leaves with an appointment to come back, thanks to Dean’s contributions as well as Anna’s.  Together, their money has pulled Cas out of debt, which takes a huge amount of stress off of him and helps him feel better about missing so many days of work.  Of course, Pamela is compliant as well, and Cas is immensely grateful for the few people in his life trying so hard to be there for him.

For the first time, including his confession to Dean, Cas pours out all of his insecurities and the memories he’s afraid to deal with to someone.  He talks about his siblings, how each one affected his life differently – especially Lucifer and Michael.  It’s not easy, he leaves most appointments drained, but eventually, therapy becomes something he almost looks forward to, any anxiety banished.

When it comes time for him to leave the psych ward, Anna’s the one to pick him up.  However, she’s not alone.  Cas’ heart lodges in his throat when he sees him, tall and built, though he still has that same baby face.  Cas picks up the pace, surging forward and wrapping his arms around his little brother. 

“Samandriel,” he greets as he pulls away, a wide smile splitting his face.

“Cas,” he replies, returning a lopsided grin.  “It’s – it’s so good to see you.”

“You too,” Cas assures.

“How are you feeling?” Anna asks, resting a hand on Cas’ shoulder.

“Great,” Cas replies.  “Really great – um – why – why don’t we head out somewhere?  For lunch?”

Samandriel and Anna exchange a look, evidently pleased.

“Sure,” Anna says.  “Do you have a place in mind?”

Cas does, and twenty minutes later, they’re heading into the Moonlit Café.  Pamela’s at the counter, and she looks up as they head inside.  The moment she recognizes Cas, she’s hurrying around the counter, throwing herself at him.

“You stupid son of a bitch,” she mutters, pulling back and taking his face in her hands.  “I’ve been worried out of my mind about you.  How are you, sugar?”

“I’m fine, Pamela,” Cas tries to reassure.  “Honestly.  In fact, I’m ready to come back to work if you’d let me.”

“Are you sure?” she asks worriedly.

“Positive.”

“Good.  You’ll start back up tomorrow.”  She gives him a slap on the cheek as she turns to go.  “Take a seat.  I’ll get to you guys in a minute.”

Cas, Anna, and Samandriel spend the rest of the afternoon in the café, and Pamela joins them from time to time, getting distracted as she talks about Cas and teases him, telling embarrassing stories about his misadventures working here.  She means well, though, and she makes it known that she’s so, so glad he’s made it out of this mess okay.

They finally leave a little after four and head back to Cas’ apartment.  Anna cleans up around the place and makes dinner later on, while Cas and Samandriel relax on the couch, watching TV and catching up.  Cas knows they won’t stay.  Eventually Anna will have to go back to her job in Pontiac, and Samandriel will have to go back to school at Madison, but he appreciates them being here now.

For so long he’s been so alone, but now he’s not, and it means the world.

.

.

For Dean, his recovery goes much the same way.

After he calls Anna, he heads down to the clinic he’d found and checks himself in.  However, he doesn’t stay for just three weeks.  He stays for two and a half months.

The first couple of weeks without Sam are hell.  His second day there, they allow Dean to call Sam, to inform him that he’s no longer at Cas’, but already in a rehabilitation center, staying full time and hating every moment of it.

Sam’s worried, and angry that he left.

“What happened, Dean?” he asks, demanding.  “Did you get into fight, or - ?  God, I shouldn’t have gone.  I should have stayed and made sure you got somewhere before I took off.”

“Sam, it’s fine,” Dean says irritably.  “I made the decision.  Cas wasn’t having any easier a time than I was, and I decided to go, let him work out his own issues without my own problems getting in the way.”

“How did Cas take it?” Sam asks nervously.

“Not – not well, I don’t think,” Dean sighs.  “I called his sister, and she said she’d be here as soon as she could.  I haven’t heard from either of them since, but – it’s not like we have any way of contacting each other.  Cas doesn’t have a cell phone, and they don’t know where I am.”

“Dean, I’m sorry,” Sam says.  “I’ll – I’ll be there soon.”

“I know,” Dean replies quietly.  “I just – I can’t stop worrying about Cas, wondering if he did get help after all or if he did something stupid like I did.”

“I’m sure he’s fine,” Sam says.  “I talked to him a lot while you were in the hospital.  He’s smart, and he’s strong.  Worry about yourself, Dean.”

“But what if – “

“ _Dean,_ ” Sam says pointedly.  “You left Cas so he could focus on himself, right?”

“Yeah, but – “

“Take your own advice,” Sam urges.  “Focus on your recovery, Dean.  Not Cas’.”

Dean sighs heavily.  “You’re right.  I’ll – I’ll try to stop worrying.”

“Good,” Sam says.  “I have to go, Dean, but call me when you can.  I’ll be there soon.”

“Bye,” Dean replies, listening to the click of Sam hanging up with an empty feeling burning inside of him. 

He’s regretting leaving already, wishing he would have stayed, would have instead offered help in return.  They could have held each other up, could have exchanged support, but instead Dean took himself out of the equation, no doubt making it worse for Cas.  For God’s sake, Cas even said he was.  There’s no way he’s okay.  No way.  And it’s making it hard for Dean to focus on himself like Sam wants, like he wishes he could.

It does take awhile for Dean to stop worrying about Cas, but when Sam shows up for his first visit, he assures Dean that he talked to Cas, and that he’s doing just fine.  Of course, Dean finds out he was lying later, but he appreciates the encouragement nonetheless.

The two and a half months are rough, and entail a lot more than just getting Dean away from alcohol and drugs.  He’s forced to go through the psychology behind it, handing himself over to therapists who try to determine why he turned to drugs and alcohol in the first place.  Dean thinks it’s simple – it’s hereditary, but that’s just the tip of the iceberg.

The first straw was his mother’s death, then it was his father’s alcoholism.  A childhood of being the caretaker his mother should have been and the parents to Sam he never got took away his opportunities to care for himself.  A high school career of never feeling good enough, of being ragged on by teachers and peers alike, telling him he’d never get anywhere if he didn’t get his act together.  Not once did anyone ask about what was going on at home, not once did anyone try and find any other reason than simply Dean being inadequate.  An adult life of struggling to get by, losing it all first when his brother left for Stanford, and again when his father died.  Sinking into what his therapist believes is depression, losing hope in ever making things better for himself.  All of these things pushed Dean to where he is today, and once he realizes that, he feels like he can get past it.

After the two and a half months are up, Dean is left in his brother’s care.  Dean’s initially worried about school, but as it turns out, during the last week of Dean’s stay, Sam went back and sat his exams.  He’s done for this year and free to rent an apartment in Chicago alongside his brother, while he works to get back on his feet.  Dean smiles then, hugging him tightly before following him home.

Dean calls up Mr. Shurley as soon as he can, apologizing over and over for his absence.  He’s only missed two weeks of publication, thankfully, and Mr. Shurley is willing to give him his column back immediately.  Dean thanks him over and over, promising he has another article coming, and it’s a big one – one they should expect to reign in a new legion of readers.

 


	13. Chapter 13

THE LUCKY ONES  
by D.J. Smith

_I’ve had this job for months now, and not once have I ever delved deep into my own personal experiences.  I’ve grazed the top only to justify certain things I’ve said, but talking about things that hit close to home has never really been an option.  One – they’re private.  And two – I’m assuming most of my readers don’t give a shit._

_However, today I’ve realized that even if my readers don’t, I give a shit – which is actually something rather new.  I’m not a self-pitying type.  I’m a bottle-up-everything-until-it-explodes-out-of-you-in-a-mess-of-self-loathing type.  I don’t like getting personal or emotional or even practical.  I abide by the philosophy that if you ignore something, it simply does not exist - but that’s the problem.  Because no matter how many times or how hard you push something back, it’s still there.  It’s still there at the back of your mind, slowly eating away at you until it makes a breakthrough and you’re left shattered on the floor, desperately trying to put the pieces back together._

_I’m going off on a tangent here, but the point I’m trying to make revolves around how most people really don’t give a shit.  How we get so wrapped up in ourselves and in our own problems that we have no time for other people and their problems._

_I also want to talk about judgment, about how while we’re stuck in that web of problems, we develop beliefs that there are only certain things people can struggle with, and that if you’re struggling with something outside of that norm, there’s something wrong with you._

_Let’s say for example – rape._

_If you’re a teenage girl whose biggest problem is that you just got turned down by your crush, rape’s probably never seemed like something that could happen to you.  It’s something of a distant world, where girls wear short skirts and low-cut tank tops and tempt the boys._

_Except that’s completely wrong.  That’s completely and utterly wrong, because you’re basing your beliefs on what?  What have you ever experienced regarding rape?  Have you been raped?  Has someone you know been raped?  No?  Then you have no right to say or think any of that._

_There’s this misconception in this world that if something bad happens to you and it’s a little more extreme than the common struggles, you’ve done it to yourself.  You were asking for it, and it’s your own problem to deal with.  The sympathy you get for your shitty day at work or the money you lost on the subway isn’t enough to go around to anyone else because you didn’t ask that stuff to happen to you.  But that victim of rape did.  That guy in the headlines who committed suicide did.  The drug addict running loose on the streets did._

_But again – that’s wrong._

_We’re raised in this society to believe that girls who wear revealing clothes are whores, and that people who commit suicide are just attention-seekers, and that drug addicts are bad, insane people who should be locked up for the rest of their lives.  And in reality, these people are just victims.  The girl who shows a large amount of cleavage actually struggles finding shirts suitable enough in society’s eyes and cheap enough to wear, because her family doesn’t have money.  And two weeks later when some guy is taking advantage of her, we say it’s her fault for tempting him.  The guy who committed suicide just lost his wife, and couldn’t live without her.  The drug addict was born addicted to methamphetamines and could never quite shake it._

_I’m twenty-seven.  I’m twenty-seven years old, and for the past three years, I’ve lived in my car.  When I was twenty, I dropped out of college.  When I was twenty-four, my father died, and could no longer support me.  My brother was in law school at the time, and he had long since divorced the family.  We exchanged words at the funeral, but he left as soon as he could.  And I was truly alone in the world.  My mother had died when I was four, my father when I was twenty-four, and my brother didn’t give a rat’s ass about me.  It was only logical that I began to sink into a depression – or rather, it began to worsen to a point beyond return._

_I never saw a therapist – not once.  I didn’t have the money to, and I didn’t actually believe anything they did would work.  Looking back, I’m certain I had been depressed since high school.  High school was hell for me.  My father was an alcoholic, and I had to raise my brother on my own, leaving me limited time for myself.  Schoolwork became too difficult, and I considered dropping out several times to get a job and support my brother.  But I never did.  My brother wouldn’t allow it.  We were close back then, but when he decided to leave for Stanford, it tore the family apart.  I had given up my own schooling to take care of my father, but my brother wasn’t willing to do the same.  I didn’t blame him, but I wasn’t going to leave my father alone, and my brother left us without a backward glance._

_After my father died, it was a month before I turned to drugs.  I started with prescription painkillers.  It became so that I was taking at least twenty a day, or risking withdrawals.  When those became boring, I switched to morphine.  And then to ecstasy, to LSD, to everything imaginable.  I coughed up cash for anything I could get my hands on just to numb the pain.  But depression was always catching up on me._

_There was a point where I nearly overdosed.  Where I was sitting on the curb, feeling my body slipping away as I vomited up my organs into the sewer drain beside me.  I still don’t know whether I was trying to commit suicide or not.  That memory is still a huge blur, and I had been high out of my mind at the time.  But the more I think about it, the more I realize that I wouldn’t put it past myself to commit suicide.  My life was a pile of shit, and it still would be if it wasn’t for the angel that saved me._

_While I was throwing up, I remember a man crouching down next to me, putting his hand on my back and helping me to get everything up.  I know he saw the pills come up, saw them clatter down the drain, and I can’t even imagine what was going through his head at the time.  I don’t even know what was going through mine.  All I knew was that I had to get everything up, had to please the guy holding onto me.  I ended up passing out, and woke up the next day in the hospital, the same man who rescued me waiting at my bedside.  I’m glad he saved my life.  I don’t want to end it – not now._

_I haven’t seen that man in awhile, but if he’s out here, and he’s reading this, I want to thank him._

_There are people out there I used to think of as “The Lucky Ones.”  People who live in shelter and ignorance and don’t ever look beyond their perfect bubbles.  People who pass by the struggles on the streets without a second glance.  People who don’t understand what it’s like to kick and crawl your way through life, trying desperately to stay above water when all it wants is to pull you down.  I hated them, hated them with a burning passion._

_Because how is it fair that they get to live the lives they do when I’m down here struggling?  How is it fair that other kids got to grow up with two loving parents when I dealt with my mother dying at age four, and my father succumbing to alcoholism for the rest of his life?  How is it fair that other kids got into great colleges when I barely got my high school diploma because I was too busy taking care of my father and brother?  How is it fair at all?_

_It isn’t, but I’ve decided to let it go.  I’ve decided to stop judging people, because while my life’s been hell, I at least know just how terrible things can get, and I can empathize with others.  I’ve lived; I truly have, and I take pride in knowing that I understand some things others cannot._

_This all really came to light for me when I overdosed.  We spend so much time judging other people, so much time worried about what other people are doing, and we don’t take care of ourselves. We have to stop worrying about the idiots who don’t understand, and focus on the ones who do.  And if we can – we can educate those who don’t understand, and make sure they learn._

_The man who saved me understands.  He doesn’t look at my past and see a bad person.  He doesn’t look at the things I’ve done and cast me off as horrible human being.  He looked at me that day and saw the person I really am – behind the depression and the addiction.  He saw the boy who lost his mother at four, the boy who raised his kid brother even though he was just a kid himself, he saw the boy that put up with his father’s shit just for the sake of being a good son, he saw the boy lost and alone in the world with nowhere to turn to and who unfortunately, picked up a few bad habits.  And I appreciate that more than he will ever imagine._

_This man understands because he’s gone through so many shitty things as well.  He told me his own life story, told me how not that long ago, he tried to kill himself – legitimately, honestly, sober.  He told me of the childhood he had, the one with parallels to my own, and how he’s still struggling to this day._

_Starting out this piece, my title was initially referring to the people who take the good things in their life for granted.  But now, typing this out, I feel lucky.  I feel happy and content because someone saved my life when I was so convinced it wasn’t even worth living.  Because for the first time in a long time, I had someone taking care of me, telling me that it would be alright – and that’s the point isn’t it?  All I needed was understanding.  All I needed was someone to go out of their way and to make me talk and to do their best to listen and help.  And that’s what I got.  I’m not better.  I’m barely clean and I’m not one hundred percent okay.  I still feel like crap a lot of the time, and I still think about the feeling I had when I realized I had overdosed – how it was a mixture of panic and relief, but I’ll be okay.  I’m working to get better and everything that’s happened in the past twenty-three years of my life will finally be behind me._

_And I feel like one of The Lucky Ones._

.

.

Three months. 

It’s been three months since Cas last saw Dean, and every day has felt like a lifetime.  He’s been able to handle it, but the separation doesn’t hurt any less.  He’s done what he could to take his mind off Dean’s absence, but Anna and Samandriel have left Chicago, and he’s been left with too much alone time.  Not to mention, he’s currently sitting at the back of the café on his break, Dean’s latest article clutched in his hand.

He reads it, and his eyes well up with tears, his insides breaking apart into pieces for so many different reasons he can’t even begin to explain.  Initially, it’s Dean’s life story that starts the tears coming.  He never knew, never got the chance to ask about it all.  Sam mentioned it, explained things briefly, but he never got Dean’s side of the story.

The vague mention of himself actually makes Cas set the paper down.  He puts his face in his hands, and slowly pulls himself back together, only to fall apart when Dean addresses him almost directly.  After all this time, Dean’s still thinking of him – and God, the way he thanks Cas, painting him to be some knight in shining armor.  It’s too much for Cas, honestly.

By the end of the article, Cas’ eyes are wet for a different reason.  Dean’s out of rehab, that much is clear, but the fact that he’s hopeful, the fact that he feels well enough to be content with his current situation.  At least if they had to struggle through all of this, the two of them were lucky enough to come out on top.

“Cas!”

He looks up, wiping at his eyes as Pamela approaches him.

“Cas?  What’s wro -?”

She catches sight of the newspaper and nods, understanding. 

“I read it this morning,” she says.  “Quite insightful, don’t you think?”

Cas nods, folding up the paper.  “Very.”

He follows after Pamela without another word, heading back to work.  He’ll have time to decipher everything later and work through his conflicting emotions, but right now he has a shift to finish.  He just hopes that Dean will show his face again in the café soon.

.

.

Thankfully, Dean does.

A week later, Cas is frazzled, darting around and trying to keep up with the sudden influx of customers.  He hears the bell ring and since Pamela is already catering to someone else, he hurries around to the counter, not even looking up as he says, “How may I help you?”

“I think you already know what I want.”

Cas’ head snaps up, eyes widening as he meets Dean’s.  It actually takes Cas a moment to recognize him, as he’s really, really cleaned up.  He’s clean-shaven, no stubble left to detect, and his hair is gelled to the side.  He’s wearing a suit with a tie and a plaid jacket, and his shoes are scuff-free.

“Wow,” Cas breathes, unable to help himself.  “You – you look – you look great, Dean.”

Dean laughs, rubbing at his mouth with his fingertips.  “Yeah.  Sobriety works wonders.”

Cas nods.  “How – how long have you – “

“Twelve weeks,” Dean replies. 

Cas smiles.  “Impressive.”

“What about you?” Dean asks, scratching at his ear.  “How – how have you been?”

“Good,” Cas replies, folding his hands together on the counter.  “I’ve – I’ve switched anti-depressants.  They’re working great for me.”

“That’s – that’s really awesome, Cas,” Dean replies.

Their conversations slips into silence and they turn their gazes away from one another.  It’s odd, and it’s a bit of a shock to be seeing one another after being torn apart with such violent reactions.  It’s nice, knowing they’re both okay, but it’s obvious they’re relationship has changed too much.  It’s almost like starting over.

Dean’s the first to break the silence, saying, “Anyway, I’m – I’m actually here on business.”

“Oh?” Cas says, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes. It – it would seem that after my last article, demand for our paper has really gone up,” Dean explains.  “We need more people to keep up the quality, and we’re looking for tons of different people to put effort into it – not just writers.”

Cas nods, not sure he knows exactly where Dean is going with this.

“We’re also looking for photographers.”

Oh.

“I – I may have shown our editor some of your work,” Dean says sheepishly, and Cas vaguely remembers some photos disappearing from his nightstand.  “He was really impressed, Cas, and he promised to keep a spot open for you.  He’s willing to give you the job right now if you want it.”

Castiel swallows hard, gripping the counter to hold himself upright.  “”Are – are you serious?”

“Yeah,” Dean says, nodding.  “Absolutely.  If you want the job, it’s yours.”

“Of course I want the job,” Cas replies, breathless.  “Oh my God, I’d love it.”

“Great,” Dean says, grinning.  “Well, then – you’re invited to lunch with Mr. Shurley and me on Saturday.  Do you remember that place we went to on our – that pizza place?  Meet us there around noon, alright?”

Cas nods, trying hard to ignore Dean’s slip-up.  “I’ll be there.”

Dean makes to leave, but then turns back.  “You know what – I think I’ll take a coffee and stay awhile.  That alright?”

Cas smiles, ringing up his order.  “That’s just fine.”

.

.

The meeting goes well.  Mr. Shurley simply explains what exactly Cas’ job will entail, and Cas agrees once more to take it.  It’s a photography job, and though it may not be exactly where Cas wants to work, his dream has still come true.  He’s a professional photographer now, and if he finds somewhere else he wants to work, he has connections, experience.

Cas starts the following Monday and is welcomed warmly by everyone aboard _Windy City Weekly_.  Dean stands in the back, clapping and grinning like an idiot.  A small, scrawny guy Cas learns later is called Garth claps him on the back, congratulating him on the job before he turns to Dean, elbowing him playfully and smirking.  Dean smacks him in return, shaking his head.

Cas is given his own workspace on the opposite side of the room as Dean – a small cubicle with a dingy computer where he can edit his photos if he so desires.  Mr. Shurley promises a new shipment of laptops has just come in, as well as copies of the newest Adobe Photoshop publication, but Cas doesn’t really care about his equipment, honestly.  In fact, he turned down the camera Mr. Shurley offered, choosing instead to use his own – but maybe that was for different reasons entirely, not just simplicity.

Working together – it certainly has its perks, but they’re limited, given the fact they’re both too shy to approach the tension between them.  Cas always imagined Dean sweeping back into his life with a kiss and dinner date waiting for them, but reality has hit them both hard, and they know slipping back into a relationship won’t be that easy anymore.  Too much has happened – both between them and while they were apart.  They can’t just pick up where they left off.

Sharing a workplace does help a little, however.  It allows them to get back into the pattern of being at the very least – friends.  They greet each other in the morning when they get to work, they have lunch together most days, with Garth being the third wheel, and some days – when Cas doesn’t work the night shift at the café or he isn’t running out to get captures – they say goodnight to each other before they leave .  Dean’s living with Sam now, in an apartment just a few blocks away, and Cas feels a little bitter, remembering the nights and the days they spent together at Cas’ place.

It starts to hurt after awhile, seeing Dean every day but never acting on his feelings.  Sometimes they go out – to bars where Dean doesn’t drink and refuses to tell people why, but he catches Cas’ gazes and offers a sad smile; to restaurants where they tell jokes and laugh and brush knees under the table, blushing as they turn to look at the person who’s talking now; to concerts and shows that the whole photography team gets them into, and Dean’s left in the audience, Cas stuck up near the stage, and neither one of them has fun at all.  They’re never alone, always grounded with their coworkers around them, and Cas wishes that just one night they could do these things on their own.  Maybe not as a date, but at least as friends, because while he talks to Dean every day, he never really gets to see him, never gets to have the conversations he wants.

There’s one day, in the middle of June, where Cas thinks he’ll finally get what he’s been wishing for.   Dean corners him after lunch, asking if he has any plans this weekend.  He says Sam’ll be gone for the weekend, and he’ll have the place to himself.  Jokingly, he brings up _Star Trek_ , and just as he does, Garth walks up to them, thinking Dean’s serious and somehow invites himself over.  It ends up being a nice night, but Cas can’t help but think it would have been better if halfway through the second movie he could’ve fucked Dean nice and slow into the couch.  And somehow, he doubts Garth would’ve been cool with it.

They spend the Fourth of July together at an office party.  It’s nice, and it’s relaxed, and they have a chance to legitimately catch up.  They don’t talk much about the darker stuff – about rehab and Cas’ time in the psych ward.  They don’t talk about their journeys with depression and PTSD, but it’s implied. 

Instead, they talk about their siblings, about Cas’ job at the café and the research Dean is doing for a novel.  They talk about television they’ve gotten into (“You still keep up with Dr. Sexy?” “Don’t judge.”), Cas mentions new bands he’s discovered (“I still say nothing beats Zep.”), and movies they’d like to see (“I can’t believe they’re doing _another_ remake of an old Star Trek movie.  _Into Darkness_ was a _total_ rip off of _Wrath of Khan_.  You’d think people would grow tired of it other than me.”)  It’s nice, having friendly chats like this, but still, Cas wishes they could trust each other more, open up like they did for that brief stretch of time.

The summer passes in unresolved tension and awkward slip-ups and the two of them continuously dancing around one another.  They both know what they want, but still they’re too scared, too scared of rejection, and repeating history, or worse – realizing they’ve fallen out of love with one another.

The end of August comes, and Cas knows Sam must be going back to school any day now.  Once he finally leaves, Dean’s obviously upset, lost without his little brother to keep his spirits up.  It worries Cas that Dean’s alone, and he keeps an eye on him as the days move into September.

Dean cheers up, but it’s obvious the adjustment is hard.  The summer gave him time to reconnect with his brother, to rebuild the relationship that was broken beyond comprehension.  Castiel had spent countless days with his own siblings, and he knows that every time they departed, he was left in a funk.  It passed eventually, and each goodbye became a little easier, but Dean’s spent too much time with Sam to just get over being so far away again.

Eventually, Cas can’t take it anymore, and he voices what’s on his mind.

It’s a Thursday when he storms up to Dean’s cubicle and blurts out, “Move in with me.”

Dean’s obviously startled as he turns around, eyebrows raised.  “W – what?”

“Move in with me,” Cas repeats.  “Sam’s gone, and so are my brother and sister.  You’re lonely.  I am too.  So, come on – move in with me.”

“Cas,” Dean says warningly.  “We – we can’t just – “

“I’m not asking you to be my boyfriend again, Dean,” Cas says, lowering his voice slightly.  “I’m asking you to be my roommate.  We’ll move your stuff into my apartment, and you’ll pay half the rent.  Roommates – that’s it.”

“That’s it?” Dean asks, and Cas nods.  “Alright,” he says.  “I’ll do it.  Are you free this weekend?”

“In the mornings,” Cas replies.  “I can help you move in until I go into work at three.”

“Good,” Dean says, letting a smirk form on his lips.  “I’ll see you then.”

Cas turns on his heel, walking away with a sense of triumph, but as it turns out, this wasn’t one of his best ideas.  Living together doesn’t help the situation at all.  If anything, it makes it worse because now he sees Dean not only at work, but when he arrives back at home.  He doesn’t see Dean only dressed up professionally, but on lazy days too when he’s wearing only sweats and when he goes to bed with only boxers and a T-shirt on.  He sees Dean when he gets out of the shower, still dripping with water.  He sees Dean when he’s passed out on the couch, right in the middle of _Dr. Sexy._

All of these things start to add up, and soon enough, Cas is escaping to the bathroom to jerk off, fighting off all of his desires to jump Dean right there in the kitchen, the living room, their bedroom.

It’s not just the attraction part, either.  Cas gets to see Dean when he’s vulnerable.  He becomes acquainted to all of Dean’s little quirks, and he begins to fall in love with Dean all over again.  Sometimes it becomes so apparent that Cas feels like he can’t breathe, and then he’s spilling water all over the floor or letting dinner burn on the stove.

Yeah, inviting Dean to live with him probably wasn’t the best idea.

.

.

Dean appreciates Cas’ concern for him, he really does.  And he appreciates that Cas offered him a place to stay where he won’t feel alone and be subject to the dark thoughts that still get to him sometimes.  The camaraderie feels reassuring, and he knows he won’t be making any relapses soon.

However, there’s a complication to living with Cas, and that’s the fact that Deans is still hopelessly, unconditionally in love with him.  Being around him in such a carefree manner only reasserts that, and it’s difficult to hide his feelings when they’re around each other so much of the time.

Fall starts to set in, and Dean begins to realize that this is probably the longest he’s ever spent in a place, and well – he has no intention of leaving. 

September withers away, and the leaves begin falling, dusting the streets with red, orange, and yellow.  Due to a bit of peer pressure, Dean embarrassingly begins to add scarves to his wardrobe, and because he can’t figure out how to knot it to save his life, Cas does it every morning for him.  After the first week, Dean’s sure he could do it on his own, but he likes feeling Cas so close to him.

The days continue to tick by, and Dean begins to lose control of himself.  He can’t take it.  He can’t take staying away from Cas when all he wants to do is wrap his arms around Cas’ waist and pull Cas flush against him.  He can’t take coming home to find Cas cooking on his days off, food ready for them to share.  He can’t take sleeping in the same room, but not the same bed, listening to the small snores that escape Cas’ mouth, especially when he gets a slight head cold at the beginning of October.

Dean thinks that he’ll make a grand gesture when the time comes.  He’ll bake a cake and write out the words, “I still love you,” in frosting.  He’ll buy flowers and have them delivered during work.  He’ll show up at the café and serenade Cas with some cheesy rock song. 

Of course he doesn’t.  He never could, but still – he wants to rekindle their relationship in a special way.

What he doesn’t expect is to have a mild freakout when Cas tells him he’s going out on a Friday night, heading down to a local gay bar to have a little fun with Garth.

“Garth?” Dean asks, surprised.

“Yeah, he promised to be my wingman,” Cas replies, shrugging.

“That’s . . . nice.  I suppose,” Dean remarks, tone bitter.

“He’s being very supportive,” Cas continues.  “I think he’s more excited at the prospect of finding me a boyfriend than I am, to be completely honest.”

Dean hums in response, watching with irritation as Cas heads into the bathroom to shower. 

Dean waits impatiently for Cas to leave the bathroom so they can talk a little more, but then Cas walks out, hair sticking up in all directions, skin still wet.  He heads to the kitchen where he grabs his cardigan off the bar counter, giving Dean full view of his ass, and then Dean starts thinking about what’s going to happen later – how some other guy is probably going to be touching his ass and the small of his back and his neck and his _cock_ , and anger surges in Dean so fiercely he almost feels dizzy.

Cas has just grabbed his keys and his heading for the door when Dean stops him.

“Cas, wait – “

“Hmm?”

And then Dean’s kissing him, pushing him up against the door and opening up their mouths so Dean can slide his tongue between Cas’ teeth.  Cas replies, reaching up to grip Dean’s hair and, fuck – Dean loves it when he does that.

Minutes pass before Dean pulls away, and Cas smirks up at him.

“I didn’t think you were going to work up the courage,” he says breathlessly, and Dean takes a step back, confused.

“Wait – were you – were you trying to make me jealous?” he asks incredulously.

“It was Garth’s idea,” Cas says, and Dean just laughs.

“All this time, and I was worried you didn’t feel the same way,” he sighs.

“Of course I do,” Cas replies.  “I can’t go through all of that with you and not still love you, Dean.  I – I never stopped.”

“I didn’t either,” Dean says, voiced laced with raw emotion.  “But, I – I was afraid.”

“Why?” Cas asks, but of course, he already knows the answer.  They both do.

“We’re not the same people we were six months ago, Cas.  We’ve grown so much.”

“Don’t you think that maybe – maybe our love has too?” Cas counters, and Dean can’t help but smile.

He reaches down, taking Cas’ hands in his.  “God, I hope so.”

They kiss again, less desperate, less needy, more slow and passionate.  This time, it’s Dean’s heart that swells in response, rather than something else.  His throat feels tight when he pulls back, pressing his forehead against Cas’.

“So is this it?” he asks.  “Can – can we be together again?”

“You know we have to change a few things this time,” Cas says.  “Like our – “

“Communication?” Dean asks, and they both laugh.  “Yeah, I know.  And I promise to be honest with you, Cas – I do.  As long as you do the same for me.  We’re in the same boat now, both still struggling through the bad days.  We don’t need to hide anymore.”

“I know,” Cas says.  “And I won’t be afraid to talk to you, if you’re not afraid to talk to me.  We’ll support each other, okay?”

“Okay,” Dean replies, and he ducks down to kiss Cas one more time, soft and gentle.  “God, I’ve missed you.”

“I missed you too.”

.

.

They settle again, falling into an easier pattern now that they don’t have to dance around each other.  They begin sleeping in the same bed again, after long rounds of slow, easy sex as well as the nights where they’re rough and filthy.  They wake up to gentle kisses, to cups of coffee and doses of medication.  They go to work together in Dean’s car, separating to their different work stations and reuniting at lunch where they hold hands on top of the table.  They usually spend the afternoons apart, but come back home for dinner and late night TV before going back to start the cycle all over again.

And through all of this, they begin to realize there’s no regret.

The disaster they went through all those months ago, it doesn’t taint their relationship.  It gives them something to learn off of and proof that they’ve only grown stronger – both together and as their own persons.

No, Cas doesn’t regret falling in love with Dean Winchester, and just the same, Dean doesn’t regret falling in love with Castiel Milton.

After all, they found their way back to each other for a reason.


	14. Epilogue

Their apartment in New York is much larger, much more spacious and roomy than the one they had in Chicago.  Of course, it’s also more expensive, but it’s not too tight on their wallets given Dean’s spot on the _New York Times_ , as well as Cas’ successful photography studio.

It’s their one-year anniversary of living here, and as a special treat, they’ve decided to add a new piece of décor to their bedroom.

Dean’s carrying it up the stairs now, and Cas watches him, nervous.

“Oh, God – be careful!”

Dean looks up, flashing Cas his most practiced bitchface.  He’s breathes heavily as he chokes out, “I’m trying, but this is just a _little_ heavy.”

“Right,” Cas says, smiling sheepishly.  “I’m sorry.  I just – I worked hard on it.”

“I know, I know,” Dean sighs, and he grits his teeth as he pulls it up the last flight, finally reaching their apartment.  Cas holds the door open for him as he slips inside.  “Alright, give me a second to take my coat off before we figure out how to hang up this thing.”

“I already have the hooks up, don’t worry,” Cas replies.  “I just hope they’re level.”

“Well,” Dean says, hauling the thing back into his arms, “We’ll find out.”

They head into their room, and Cas spots Dean as he climbs up the ladder, setting the piece onto the hooks.  It takes him five tries to get it, and he almost collapses in relief when he’s finished.  He hops down from the ladder and follows Cas he takes a few steps back, moving towards the doorway.

“What do you think?” Cas asks, quiet.

“It’s beautiful,” Dean replies, and it is.

A huge, five foot by five foot photo on canvas of the two of them – a candid accidentally taken while Cas was trying to set up a nice, formal picture.  The flash had been lagging, and Dean had cracked a joke, making them both laugh.  It had reminded Cas so much of that first candid of Dean that he insisted they used it, and Dean hadn’t argued.

Now it sits above their bed, a nice reminder of how far they’ve come, and as Cas tells him, snaking his arms around Dean’s waist, it really compliments the Pulitzer Prize certificate hanging below it, addressed to _Dean Winchester_ for “The Lucky Ones.”

“I always thought that was your best work, you know,” Cas remarks.  “And now it’s hanging next to my best work.  Perfect.”

“Yeah,” Dean agrees, resting his head against Cas’.  “Perfect.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's all I have. Thank you to everyone who stuck around through this ridiculous posting schedule, and especially to those who have given me such wonderful reviews. You have no idea how much it means to me to hear that people not only approve of but enjoy the story I've written and the touchy subject matter it involves.
> 
> Additionally, I need to give a huge, huge thank you to my wonderful and supportive beta, Tegan - meowstiel (frozensight).


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